A Hallmark Holiday
by Novus Ordo Seclorum
Summary: Valentine's Day affects everyone differently. For some, it is a day to cherish love in all its splendor; for others, a day to mourn love lost or unrequited. Where Donatello is concerned, it is a day to spend sequestered in his lab, away from the fanfare and revelry. But when the actions of those around him force him to confront his inner demons, the holiday takes on a new meaning.
1. Inertia

**Note:** This story is set in the not-so-distant future. When I came up with the concept, I envisioned the Turtles as being about 21-22 and April (when she makes her appearance) being about 22-23. Also, as a forewarning, this story is rated 'T' for coarse language (blame Raph) and references to the consumption of alcohol. Furthermore, I do not own the Turtles. That said, enjoy!

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><p><strong><span>Chapter 1: Inertia<span>**

"Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding.  
>Even as the stone of the fruit must break, that its heart may stand in the sun, so must you know pain."- Kahlil Gibran<p>

My right hand moves with fluidity and precision; my left holds steady the drafting paper and journeys to my desk to retrieve items integral to the task: the ruler, compass, eraser, and my coffee mug. All the while, my mind hums along, scrutinizing every detail. The repetitive nature of this work used to calm me, especially when I was younger and the stakes were lower. Back then, my creations were little more than the product of an overactive imagination, designed to make life easier or more comfortable. Now though, as they have found their way into battle time and again, I can ill afford miscalculations. The smallest misstep on paper is catastrophic in practice; if something fails or falters at a critical moment, all could be lost. My brothers, try as they may, don't quite understand. They're always telling me that I work too hard, that I need to relax, that I shouldn't put such pressure on myself. But I'd rather spend a sleepless night hunched over my drafting table working the kinks out of a design than the rest of my life mourning one of them. And so I do.

But that is only part of the reason I immerse myself in my work: it's also an escape when life becomes unbearable—when it's easier and nobler to pour my efforts into a project than to face grim realities or troubling notions. That, I suppose, is why I am here now. I couldn't sleep and couldn't bear my own company. It's funny how that happens sometimes and even funnier how something like a date on a calendar can cause such strife. It has no fists. No voice. No agenda. It's completely immaterial. Yet the power it's given by others through consent and participation make it formidable.

"Dudes! Breakfast is ready!"

Mikey's voice reaches me from beyond the confines of my lab. It soars above the dull scraping of graphite against paper and the sound of my own breathing. To be honest, it startles me and for a split second, my heart gallops. I didn't realize it was already morning. Heck, I didn't hear the usual morning soundtrack: the clinking of pots and pans or the frothy rhythm of the whisk keeping time against the side of the mixing bowl. Only when I set down my pencil do I realize how tired my eyes feel. Surely red-rimmed and glassy behind heavy, drooping lids. With a yawn, I stand; my joints pop. I stretch the stiffness from my limbs and head to the kitchen, coffee mug in tow. Leo is already at the table nursing a glass of orange juice and reading a worn, yellowed copy of _The Sheltering Sky_; Mikey is working feverishly at the stove, turning his attention from one pan to the next, the loosely tied strings of his threadbare "Kiss the Cook" apron bobbing lazily behind him.

"Good morning, fellas."

"DON-NIE!" Mikey sing-songs my name and looks at me over his shoulder. "Mornin' bro! I hope you brought your appetite!"

I pull up a chair beside Leo. He folds over a page in his book to mark his place and flips it closed.

"Good morning, Donnie." His eyes pull to mine. As always, he takes note of every detail—no matter how minute—and I sense what he is about to say before the words leave his lips. "Are you feeling alright? You look awful."

"Gee, thanks."

"You know what I mean. Did you get _any_ sleep? Any at all?

"Some." I lie. I don't support the practice, but I'd rather he not worry about me. After all, he has his own crosses to bear. "A few ideas came to me last night. Little tweaks and improvements I can make to the new stealth cycle. And I knew if I didn't get them down while they were fresh in my mind I would have promptly forgotten."

"Oh…" For a moment, he falls silent, searching for the right words. "Um… are you really going to rebuild it? I didn't think you were going to… Not after… well, you know…"

I know. All too well, in fact. It was no secret that the more Raph hung out with Casey, the wilder he became. It was a lot like adding water to acid—the reaction was immediate and undeniably volatile. And if fuelling his appetite for reckless abandon wasn't bad enough, Casey also introduced him to the mind-altering, inhibition-numbing allures of alcohol. Raph, never one to do anything half-heartedly, developed a rather serious problem: what began as a way to blow off steam one or two nights a week quickly developed into a nightly vice. When he wasn't drunk, he was drinking and when he wasn't drinking, he was passed out. A couple nights ago, in a hazy stupor, he wrapped the stealth cycle around a telephone pole. He walked away with cuts and bruises and vowed to kick his habit. But the very next night he was right back at it. If I'm to be honest with myself—and I try to be—I think the reason I'm rebuilding the stealth cycle is out of sheer, mad hope—hope that fixing it will somehow fix Raph, too.

"We need it. It's too useful and versatile for me to just let it go. Besides, I think I can make it better…safer."

Mikey chuckles. "Dude, the only way you can make it safer for Raph is to add training wheels or something…"

"Mikey's right." Leo adds, downing his OJ. "There was nothing unsafe about the cycle in the first place… It was the driver… and we all know why that is…"

I shrug, hands upturned. "I don't know what else to do, guys. It's not like we can watch him 24/7 to make sure he doesn't take a drink…"

"I know!" Mikey smiles wide. He scoops the last of the pancakes onto a plate, sets them on the table, and takes a seat. "I was watchin' this old western the other night. The sheriff and deputy locked up the town drunk for a couple of days so he could 'dry out.' It's pretty crazy, but it might work. Whaddya think?"

"It's an idea…" Leo muses, grinning. He skewers a few pancakes and plops them on his plate; a flicker of confusion burns in his eyes and his brow furrows. "Uh, Mikey… What's up with the pancakes?"

I look to Leo's plate and notice that they are heart-shaped.

"Oh, that…" Mikey serves himself, drowns his breakfast in syrup, and passes the plate to me. "Just mad skills, bro. Figured I'd be festive, you know, it being Valentine's Day and all?"

Inadvertently, I fumble with the plate and drop it on top of mine. A cacophony of rattling dishes and clinking flatware rises and falls. In its wake, a tense silence settles in and I feel their eyes upon me. A nervous giggle pries itself from the back of my throat and I feel my cheeks burning with embarrassment. As usual, I'm a smooth operator.

"Heh, heh…" I toss a couple of the offending heart-cakes on my plate and use the side of my fork to mince them to mush. "I'm all thumbs this morning…"

I shovel an oversized forkful into my mouth and fix my eyes to the table, hoping they will shift the conversation in a different direction. Unfortunately, my withdrawal only exacerbates the situation. Rather than skirting around the topic as they normally would, they take my odd behavior into account, ponder its cause, and come to the inevitable conclusion. They look to each other and back to me, unsure of what to say or do.

"Oh, jeez…" Mikey mutters sheepishly. He rubs the back of his neck the way he always does when he is nervous or self-conscious. "Donnie… Look, I forgot… I'm not the best at remembering dates and stuff like that. I didn't mean to…"

"It's fine, Mikey. Really it is." I plaster a smile to my face, hoping to reassure him. "The pancakes are delicious, by the way."

At that, he brightens. "Thanks! The secret ingredient is lo…" He trails off and clears his throat. "I mean, butter! Globs and globs of butter!"

Leo turns to me and opens his mouth as if to speak; a wall of noise, however, interrupts his train of thought and holds his attention hostage. About a year ago, while channel surfing, Mikey discovered a production of "Stomp" on PBS. I'm not sure if it was the fast-paced rhythms, theatrics, or the concept of using garbage cans, brooms, and metal barrels as musical instruments that appealed to him most, but he was immediately enamored with it. The uproar down the hall sounds quite similar, only off-beat, dissonant, and lightly seasoned with profanity. After a minute or two, it dies down and Raph emerges, teetering from side to side on unsteady legs. He scowls at us, his eyes sunken and bleary.

"Heya, Raph!" Mikey chirps, his greeting a white flag. "Are ya hungry? I whipped up a batch of pancakes and they're happy to see you!"

Groggily, Raph rubs his eyes, all the while grumbling under his breath. He sways as he approaches, barely able to keep his feet from buckling under his weight or betraying him altogether. He steadies himself against the table and draws several deep breaths—in through his nose and out through his mouth—either to slow the spinning of the room or to keep himself from emptying the contents of his stomach on the kitchen floor. Leo, Mikey, and I take in the sight—as we have most mornings—with aching hearts, fretting minds, and voices unable to convey the depth of our concern.

It isn't until he pulls up a chair that he notices this morning's breakfast is unconventional. At the very sight, his eyes narrow. The muscles in his neck tense and jump and his hands ball into tightly clenched fists.

"Wha's this…shit?"

Mikey's smile fades; inwardly, I cringe. Ever since we were young, Mikey's looked up to Raph. He's his hero, his protector. An occasional victim of his pranks but constant recipient of his admiration. Whether Raph realizes it or not—whether he cares or not—he holds influence over Mikey. His every word has the power to heal or inflict harm, to uplift or debase. Holding such influence is a responsibility. But to Raph, responsibility is dirty word. He doesn't see how every idiotic word that slithers from his drunken maw wounds our brother. But I do and my heart breaks every time I consider what might happen if nothing changes—slight after slight will drive a wedge between them until the warm relationship they share shatters irreparably.

"Pancakes, Raph. New look, same great taste." Leo chimes in. He wipes his mouth with a napkin and shakes his head in either disapproval or disgust, I can't quite tell. "Jeez, you act like we're trying to poison you or something."

"Well…'scuse me for askin' a question… I've just never…seen 'em in such…fruity shapes before. Wha's the deal with that? Ol' Mikey here 'splorin' his feminine side? Watched one too many episodes of Martha-friggin'-Stewart, huh?"

My anger is a ball of molten slag roiling in my gut. My body stiffens. My blood burns in my veins, practically screaming as it races through me. I try to calm myself, to avoid making things worse than they are, but the words slip off my tongue before I can catch myself: "Shut up, Raph."

"Wha'd you just say t' me?"

"You heard me. Lay off. Either eat breakfast or don't, color commentary is unnecessary. As for the heart-shapes… well… do you even know what day it is..?"

His drunken mind reels. He falls silent in intense contemplation, as though he is unraveling some grand, unfathomable mystery. After a moment of clarity and realization, he throws the plate of pancakes in my face. "Fuck you, Donnie."

He pushes away from the table and spins on his heel, nearly losing his balance. He retrieves a beer from the fridge, plunges one of his _sai_ into the bottom of the can, and greedily sucks every last drop through the makeshift opening. Then, he crushes the can in his hand and tosses it in our direction; I practically jump out of my chair, pancakes sliding from my shoulders and plastron as I do, seeing red. Leo's hand, however, catches my wrist.

"Don't." He whispers. "That's not gonna solve anything…"

Raph snorts in contempt; a throaty chortle rumbles from behind his smug grin, his body quaking as it does. "That's right. Cuz even on my worst day I could still wipe the floor with your sorry ass, you pussy."

I watch impotently as Raph staggers back from whence he came, his coarse, braying laughter lingering in the room before following him out. Practically trembling with rage, I turn to Leo and yank my wrist from his grasp.

"You shouldn't have stopped me."

"I know you're angry, and you have every right to be." He says calmly. "Trust me when I tell you that there have been times lately when I've come awfully close to taking a swing. But it won't change anything and it won't help. All it'll do is push him further and further away… and probably deeper into the bottle than he already is."

Mikey sighs and glances to the floor where the fruits of his labor lay strewn about. "Is that even possible?"

"Please, guys…" Leo's voice is strangely subdued, lacking its confident edge. "I know it's been difficult seeing him like this and even more difficult dealing with him. But he's still our brother, even if he isn't acting like it…"

"Well, we have to do something..." Though not my intention, my statement comes across as a demand rather than a call for corroboration.

"I know... But whatever we do has to be tactful. If Raph thinks we're ganging up on him, he'll shut us out completely. We have to take a more subtle approach… maybe if we voice our concerns and hear his side of things, we can convince him to change…"

"Oh!" Mikey exclaims with a snap of his fingers. "Like an intervention!"

I roll my eyes at the suggestion. Leo either catches me from his periphery or senses my tacit objection. "Problem, Donnie?"

"Well…It's just…"

"What?"

"Well, you're assuming Raph will listen to reason. I don't think he will. As it stands, he's beyond our reach." I gather my breakfast dishes and set them in the sink. "And while I want to help him as much as I can, we can't risk dragging this out. He got lucky when he walked away from that accident. He was banged up a bit, sure, but it could have been a lot worse. What if next time he can't walk away from it? What if he does something reckless and it puts you or me or Mikey in harm's way? What if we're in a fight, he's not at his best, and the Foot or the Purple Dragons seize the opportunity? In a perfect world, we'd be able to handle this thing with due care… But the circumstances don't afford us that kind of time."

Leo eyes me with suspicion. "What are you suggesting?"

"Something...more drastic. Maybe keeping him confined until he's healthy isn't the worst idea…"

"No! No way, dude!" Mikey protests. "I was jokin' about that. You can't do that to _Raph_! He'd never let it go... He'd hate us forever…"

I glance between Mikey and Leo. "How long do you think he can keep this up? You can't burn a candle at both ends and expect the light to last. I don't want Raph to hate me and I'd much rather have him as an ally than an enemy… But if I have to be the bad guy to save him from himself, then I'll do it…"

At that, their features slacken and I can sense their mutual reluctance. I can't tell if it stems from apprehension or misplaced faith, but whatever the cause, I find myself outnumbered. I consider arguing my case more ardently, but choose to let the moment pass. Matters of the heart are impervious to logic and reason as they are guided almost exclusively by emotion. Leo and Mikey have their opinion and I my own. And neither side will concede to the other, no matter how convincing the argument. Instead, I sigh, turn away, and head for my lab.

"Donnie…" Leo's voice stops me in my tracks. "I know you think I'm wrong… I'm just asking you to trust me."

"I trust you." I manage. I draw a deep breath and remind myself that though our philosophies differ, we want the same thing. "And for once, I can honestly say that I hope I'm wrong…"

My mind whirls. It pulls me in a thousand different directions at once, each jockeying for preeminence; Raph, however, remains at the forefront. I think of how he used to be: strong, dependable, loyal, goodhearted… But those days seem so long ago. Part of me wishes I could hate him—to pry him loose from my heart, cast him aside, and move on—but I know I'm incapable of that. So, like a fool, I'll hold onto hope. I'll let fond memories sustain me in disappointment and steady me in anger. I'll yearn for him to realize the error of his ways and pray that he finds the strength to change. After all, I've been here before. I've walked this road.

I trudge up the stairs to my lab and close the door behind me. I take a seat at my drafting table and give my drawing a quick once-over. A few ideas come to mind—adjustments to the suspension; improvements to the steering; reinforcing the frame with high-tension, low-density steel to make it lighter and stronger—and I jot them down at the bottom of the page for future reference. Pencil in hand, I reach for my ruler, fully intending to finish the design so I can begin building a scale model, but I find myself unable. My hands, ever steady and reliable, shake of their own accord. The lines I've committed to paper seem to swirl and twist before me—a kaleidoscopic effect likely brought on by sleep deprivation. I lean forward, rest my elbows on the table, and bury my head in my hands. My tired eyes protest and demand a rest; grudgingly, I acquiesce and close them. The morning's events replay in my mind like some tired old song I know all too well—the verses change, but the melody remains:

"_Fuck you, Donnie."_

"…_Even on my worst day I could still wipe the floor with your sorry ass, you pussy."_

Alone, as I have in the past, I wear my sorrow like a yoke and my anger like a ball and chain. Together, they hold me back; they keep me from doing what is necessary; they force me to relinquish the things I want. In the interest of self-preservation—to avoid more pain and disappointment—I submit to them and humbly accept less than I deserve. After all, it's safe. It's comfortable. It's manageable. Even if in the deepest parts of my mind I know that I'm profoundly unhappy.

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Well, here is the first chapter! Clearly not your usual Valentine's Day fare, but I decided to run with it. As things progress, you'll gain a greater understanding of what exactly happened to Donnie and why Raph has become such a lush. I am interested, though, in knowing what all of you think! Please tell me how I did! Also, I would greatly appreciate it if you took a look at my other TMNT stories, "Gypsy" and "Forever on a Winter's Eve."

Also, the current TMNT Fanfiction Competition is underway at the Stealthy Stories website (stealthystories DOT prophpbb DOT com). Please visit the site for the rules, details, and pertinent dates! Plus, stop by to hang out! A lot of cool people (SleepingSeeker, Terraform, Alex Hamato, BubblyShell22, TheIncredibleDancingBetty, Enimul, and The Nerdfighter [to name a few]) frequent the site…so stop by and say hi!


	2. Solidarity

**Chapter 2: Solidarity**

"Before there can be change, there must be discontent."-Paul Bowles

"Not until we are lost do we begin to understand ourselves."- Henry David Thoreau

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><p>There's a knock at my door. My eyes snap open and I find myself face-down on my drafting table—my arms splayed out over its edge, my chin and cheek resting in a small puddle of drool. I must have dozed off. I try to figure out how long I've been out, but the fog in my mind is dense and slow to lift. In a daze, I get to my feet, rub the sleep from my eyes, and wipe the dampness from my cheek with the back of my hand.<p>

"Donnie, you there, bro?" Mikey's voice sounds from the other side of the door, punctuated by another volley of raps.

"Jussa second…" I mutter.

On legs of rubber, I tramp to the door and, with a quick pull, slide it open. Mikey stands in the doorway wringing his hands, his lips pursed, his eyes darting about; his gaze settles on me for a moment before he averts it, suddenly interested in the floor.

"Oh... Were you sleeping?" He asks, barely above a whisper. "If I'd've known you were sleeping, I would've waited 'til later…"

"It's okay… I didn't know I was sleeping, either."

That calms him; he stops his fidgeting. The change in his body language is a testament to how alcoholism alters the addict's entire world. Strangely, you grow accustomed to erratic behavior from the drinker. You rationalize it, even. You tell yourself that it's just the booze talking, that they don't really mean it. You tell yourself that it's not their fault and that they're not to blame. But that's because you don't want to acknowledge the truth even when it looks you straight in the face. You don't want to believe that someone you care about may never come back to you. Over time, the stress that causes leads to change. The way you interact with people, the way you react to certain situations, the way you cope when overwhelmed… everything changes. What's worse is that you barely realize it because it becomes your reality. Raph's drinking has frayed everyone's nerves. Seemingly trivial occurrences—little things that never used to matter—agitate, fester, and ignite larger, more explosive arguments. And Mikey, never at ease when others are at odds, is always the first to try to smooth things over. But filling that role wears you down and slowly chips away at your resolve. Though he bears the burden well, it's plain to me that it has taken a toll on him.

"Can I… Can I come in?"

Without a word, I move aside and gesture for him to enter. He makes his way to my desk and plops down in the swiveling chair, twirling in it several times for good measure; I turn my chair to face his and sit down.

"What's on your mind, Mikey?"

"Well, um… I…" He stumbles over his tongue and clears his throat. "I… I wanted to apologize for this morning. I just figured I'd change things up a bit, you know? I guess I didn't really think about the bigger picture… as usual."

The self-deprecation, while slight, doesn't elude me. It has become second nature to him—almost reflexive—and the more troubled or upset he is, the more often he employs it.

"Apologize for what? For making breakfast?" I roll my eyes in mock-exasperation, hoping to lift his spirits. "What great villainy will you commit next?"

"I'm serious, dude." He throws his hands up in defeat. "I don't want to make things around here any worse. I mean, it's bad enough having Raph mad at me all the time…"

He hangs his head. I'm not sure if it's what he said or the way he said it, but it cuts deeply.

"Hey. Look at me." He does. "Raph's not mad at you. Trust me. Whatever he's going through…whatever he's been going through… well, it's more complicated than that…"

"But he acts like he hates us, like he can barely stand to be in the same room with us. Me especially."

I try to think of something encouraging to say, but find the well has run dry. Optimism has never been one of my strong suits. Mentally, I flip through my rolodex of suitable anecdotes before it dawns on me that the last thing anyone wants to hear when they are upset is some tired old saying that has lost most of its meaning. I decide to stick to honesty and logic instead, lest I say the wrong thing and end up spending the rest of the day trying to get the taste of foot out of my mouth.

"Tell me something, Mikey… What do I do when I'm upset?"

His answer is immediate: "You keep yourself busy, I guess. You come in here and…well, I don't really know what you do _exactly_, but you're usually at it for a couple hours, at least…"

"Right. I work on a project. It takes my mind off of whatever is bothering me… Sometimes, it even helps me come up with solutions to my problems. And what about Leo? How does Leo cope?"

"He takes walks. It's always the same route... and I think he has a spot that he likes to go to think about stuff… but I've never followed him to find out." He quirks a brow. "Donnie, what does this have to do with Raph?"

"Think about it. What does Raph do? What has he _always_ done?"

He considers my question; after a moment, his eyes widen. "He always chucks a spaz…"

Confusion must be etched upon my face, because he begins to explain before I even ask.

"Oh, sorry… I heard that on T.V. the other day… It means the same as 'freak out' but I think it sounds cooler…"

He's right on both counts: not only does it sound cool, but it perfectly describes Raph's behavior when sufficiently riled, agitated, or otherwise conflicted. A fit of laughter quakes through me, louder than intended, and fills the room.

"I couldn't have said it better myself…" I manage, my throat tight and sore. I gather my composure and press on. "Have you ever been drunk before?"

He shakes his head. "Nah. A couple months back, Raph swiped a six-pack from a group of kids tyin' a few on in an alley. He kept naggin' me to have one with him—'grow a pair and man up,' he said—so I tried one… It was awful. It tasted like stale bread soaked in club soda." He sticks his tongue out and shudders at the recollection. "You?"

I nod. I study his expression as it changes—surprise, like dawn cresting the horizon, replaces the steadiness of casual engagement.

"In the name of science?" He asks.

"In the name of things lost and never to return." For an instant, I think about her—about how quickly things escalated and ended. An all-too-familiar feeling slinks around in my gut, even after all these years. "Anyway, I can tell you that alcohol is a great amplifier. It takes whatever you're feeling—whether it's good or bad—and brings it out of you…and sometimes, it brings the worst out in you. That's what I think it is with Raph. He hasn't exactly been forthcoming with the details, but whatever's driving him to drink the way he's been is on the inside—something he's struggling with; a fight he can't win with his fists…"

He says nothing at first, choosing instead to let my words hang in the air. He cradles his chin in his hand and drums on his jaw with his fingers, lost in thought.

"I don't get it… Why doesn't he just _talk_ to us? Maybe we can help. Why doesn't he just ask us for help?"

It's a question I've asked myself time and again. It seems so simple, like a natural progression—when troubled, ask for help—but I know that it's not. Some things are too sensitive and others too personal or painful. I can't speak for Raph, but for me it's fear. The heart may be resilient, it may be able to escape reversals of fortune almost unscathed, but confirm your unspoken fears—or worse, have another confirm them for you—and it will surely shatter.

"I don't know, Mikey… Maybe he doesn't think we can…"

"It's worth a shot, isn't it? It's better than driving everyone away…"

"Maybe that's the way he wants it…"

He grimaces at me with daggers in his eyes. "Take it back…"

"What?"

"Take it back, Donnie. Seriously."

I hold up my hands defensively. "I'm sorry if it isn't what you want to hear, but I'm just trying to call it like I see it…"

"No." He snorts. "You're trying to tell me not to get my hopes up… That Raph's never gonna change… Well, I don't believe it. You might be ready to write him off, but I'm not…"

"You're putting words in my mouth. I never said that." I find myself leaning toward him—my voice low, my words cutting. "What I said was that he'll push us away if we let him, because that's how he wants it. Think about it… Everything he's been doing—the drinking, the accident—it's like doesn't care what happens to him. Maybe he's coming close to crossing that line, maybe he's flirting with it, even… I don't really know. All I know is that it would be easier for him to give up if no one's around to stop him—if no one's around to show him that they care. That's exactly why we _can't_ let him have his way… whether it means putting up with his moods, being there for him, or giving him a dose of tough love, he needs to know he's not alone…"

Mikey beams. "Now you're talkin'! He isn't going to make it easy, though. You know he's gonna fight us every step of the way… He'll probably even step up his game a bit if he's as serious about getting rid of us as you think he is."

"You're right…"

A memory in full bloom takes hold of me. As long as I live, I'll never forget that night—the dejection, shame, embarrassment. It was all-consuming then and still gnaws at my innards from time to time. I remember sitting at the table, my head buried in my arms, weeping as softly and silently as I could. I re-traced every step I took that day and the days before, searching for answers: Why hadn't she come? What did I do wrong? But answers proved elusive; instead, I tortured myself—I cast stones and rubbed salt in my wounds.

"D-donnie..?" The voice was so soft and small that I barely recognized it. "Donnie, is that you..?

I looked up. The tapers, melted down to nubs, still burned, their flickering light cutting through the darkness and dancing upon the walls. He moved like a phantom and stepped into the light before I had a chance to wipe the tears from my eyes. At first, he simply stood and took in the sight: his younger brother—alone—crying like a child at a table set for two. He could have ignored me—he could have walked right by me to his room without a word—or worse, he could have gloated—he could have shrugged his shoulders and dismissed me with little more than an 'I told you so.' But he didn't. To my immense surprise, he sat down across from me.

"I wasn't 'spectin' to see this when I got back… Thought for sure I'd see you two on the couch gettin' all cozy and watching that friggin' movie… What's it called..? 'The Notepad?'"

Pleasantly inebriated, he laughed at his own joke; when he saw I didn't share his amusement, he changed the subject.

"Seriously, bro… what happened?"

"She… she never… never…" I couldn't finish the sentence. I didn't have to, though. Between the unused plates and silverware and my emotional state, he figured it out.

"WHAT?!" He growled through gritted teeth. "She…stood…you…UP?! Are you fucking KIDDING me?!" His fist came down hard on the table; the flatware clanged and rattled and the tapers shuddered as if afraid. "Well, ain't she a peach…"

He was livid and disgusted. He knew how I felt about her. How I always felt. He knew how difficult it was for me to even ask her to dinner. I agonized over the details for weeks—the right scenario, the right words, the right moment—before I finally mustered the courage. The day of, I was a ball of nervous energy bouncing in every which direction. Cleaning this. Straightening that. Enlisting Mikey's help to prepare the meal—chicken parmesan with baked ziti and French silk pie for dessert. When everything was _just_ so and the time came, I lit the tapers and took a seat. Master Splinter finished a cup of herbal tea and retired for the evening, Leo went out on patrol (or so he said), Mikey grabbed his skateboard and took off to parts unknown, and Raph threw on his trenchcoat and headed out to meet up with Casey. But rather than the night I envisaged, a night spent in the warm glow of her company, I found myself surrounded by stone-cold entrees and lost in a labyrinthine despair of my own creation.

"Hey…" His voice was soft again, subdued. "How's about I whip up some coffee and ya tell me wha's goin' on in that mind of yours…"

"Donnie...? Earth to Donnie!"

I snap back to attention. "Oh, sorry about that. I was just thinking about something…"

"Anything good?"

"In a way…" I muse. "Where were we?"

"Raph. His 'problem.' The way he's been actin'. The way he's been treating us. The whole enchilada…"

I run my tongue over my teeth and carefully consider my words. "I guess what it comes down to is this: when you care about someone, you entrust them with a piece of your heart. You expect them to keep it safe, to treat it with care, to never take it for granted. Sometimes, though, they let you down and it hurts all the more because of it. But, no matter how it hurts, you have to keep the faith. Cling to it. Depend on it. Because, when things are at their worst, faith is all you have; it's as much a part of love as trust…one can't last very long without the other."

Mikey rubs the back of his neck; his feet patter restlessly against the floor, the steady beat filling the space between us. I can tell he's anxious about something, but what about I'm unsure.

"Something the matter?

"Oh, no… No. I was just, uh, getting stiff from sitting here for so long. I'm fine."

Mikey possesses a number of noteworthy traits: he's a good cook, talented artist, and, though it's difficult to tell at a cursory glance, an avid writer—mainly poetry and short stories. One skill he has never possessed, though, is the ability to lie convincingly. When we were younger and more prone to mischief, Master Splinter needed to look no further than Mikey to uncover the truth. Back then, we didn't appreciate his unfailing honesty; now, though, I think it is one of his most admirable qualities.

"C'mon, Mikey… Don't hold out on me."

"I'm not! Really!"

"Really?" I look him in the eye; he squirms under the scrutiny.

"Okay, okay, you got me…" He swallows hard. "It's just… well… Are you _sure_ we're still talkin' about Raph..?"

My stomach flips and flutters and I find myself absolutely dumbstruck. My gut reaction is to fervently deny his insinuation, but my tongue suddenly feels thick and heavy and it refuses to obey. I try to string together a few words but they spring forth in an incoherent jumble. I feel self-conscious and exposed—like he can see right through me. I shift in my seat and look to my desk, the floor, the door, anywhere but his eyes.

"Uh…Of…of course we're, uh, wh-who else would I be talking about..?"

Sensing my discomfort, he backtracks. "Gah! That was so _stupid!_ Look Donnie, I didn't mean anything by it. I shouldn't've opened my big mouth…"

But the words were spoken, freed from his mind and given wings with which to fly. His attempts to placate me, however well-intentioned, are as feeble as my attempts to deny my thoughts and feelings.

"Don't apologize for speaking your mind…" I murmur. "I guess I just didn't realize what I was saying…"

He rolls forward in the desk chair and puts a hand on my shoulder. "I should've kept my trap shut, especially today of all days. Two strikes for me, I guess."

"No..." I relent with a sigh. "I mean… it's been a few years… I figured I would be over it by now, but I just can't seem to put it behind me."

"Nobody blames you for that. She wasn't exactly straightforward with you, then or afterward..."

Ambivalence is a terrible affliction. It pits the mind against itself and tears the soul asunder. Part of me wants to know what Mikey's about to say if only to gain his insight and perspective; another part of me, though, marked by cowardice and naivety, wants to flee the room before he can speak. Every moment I remain, uneasiness burrows deeper and deeper, sinking underneath my skin and working toward my core.

"It doesn't matter…" I mutter, a flicker of finality in my tone, hoping to strike preemptively.

"Yeah it does, dude…"

His words drone on in my mind like the buzzing of an insect; it takes all my will to hold the irritation snaking through me at bay. "In the end, she made her choice. She made it perfectly clear. I'm sure she had her reasons, but it makes no difference now. It's not like knowing why she did what she did will change anything anyway."

"You're kidding, right?" He sounds incredulous, almost offended. "The same guy who spends day after day up to his eyeballs in little details is going to sit here and tell me that they don't matter all of the sudden?"

I summon the courage to look upon him again; to my surprise, he stands his ground. "Not where she's concerned. Whatever reason she may have had…. It just doesn't matter."

"Well, that's convenient."

I spring from my chair so quickly that it scuttles across the floor and drops onto its side. "What do you want from me, Mikey? It's over. There's nothing I can do. All the decisions have been made and everything has played out accordingly. She has her life and I mine… And life goes on."

"Does it?" He leans back in his chair and wheels it to and fro with his feet. "Yours hasn't."

"What is _that _supposed to mean?! I've done my best, okay? I've tried to put it behind me. Do you think I like feeling this way? Do you think I like looking back on it? NO! But it's not like I can just forget about it, either."

"Why not? What's stopping you?"

And for that, I have no answer. I turn away, walk to my drafting table, and hang my head. An amalgam of emotions—anger, frustration, sorrow, and fear—wriggle inside me like a ball of worms.

"I…I don't…I…"

The chair squeaks and groans and the next I know he's by my side.

"You need answers, Donnie, you always have. " He looks at my technical drawing with a glimmer in his eye—whether it is interest, appreciation, or something else, I'm not sure. "You solve all of our problems, big and small. To not know why something is the way it is… it goes against who you are. Maybe you need those answers to move on…"

Some things in life are difficult by design, others because we make them so. There's nothing inherently problematic about the truth; in fact, all too often it stares us in the face and dares us to acknowledge its presence. The trouble with it often stems from our reaction to it. An innate need for comfort and security allows us to overlook or sugarcoat what is so in order to preserve an image or ideal—of ourselves, those we love, our triumphs and shortcomings—and it isn't until we're forced to look at ourselves in the mirror that the disparity between fact and fabrication is most glaring. In my core, I know Mikey's right. I've known for a while, really. But I banished the thought to the furthest depths of my mind to protect myself—to spare myself the heartache.

"What if… if her reason for… not coming that night... was because of what I am?"

"What, a mad scientist?" He chortles, elbowing me lightly in the side.

In spite of everything, I smile. "You know what I mean…"

He shrugs. "Then at least you'd know. You owe it to yourself to find out, dude."

He turns away and pulls the door to my lab open before I finally find my voice. "Mikey!" He looks to me. "Thank you…"

"Anytime…" He says, grinning. "By the way, I know Valentine's Day isn't exactly your thing, but I snagged copies of 'The Last of the Mohicans' and 'The Shawshank Redemption.' We can have a movie marathon, chow on some good eats… It'll be fun. Whaddya say?"

Every fiber of his being hums electric; he's so enthusiastic, it would be criminal to decline.

"I suppose I could use a break from this project… You know what? Count me in."

"Sah-WEET!" He pumps his fist in the air as though he's won something truly remarkable. "Get some rest, bro, 'cuz later we're gonna kick it!"

He pulls the door shut behind him. Alone, with nothing but silence for company, I notice it—the vise-like pressure building in my temples. I grumble my displeasure and make my way to the small cot against the wall adjacent to my desk and drafting table. I sit, bury my head in my hands, and roughly massage my forehead and eyes, but it does little. I need sleep. Nothing else will do. I lean back and pull my feet onto the cot; it wobbles and bobs and threatens to buckle beneath me, but it holds. The instant my head hits the pillow, my eyelids droop and a yawn works its way through me. I think of Mikey. Our conversation replays in my mind—what he said, how he said it, his hopes, his fears—and I can't help but admire the buoyancy of his spirit. And for the first time in a while, just before drifting off, I feel fortunate.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> A Happy Valentine's Day to you all! Hopefully, you enjoyed this chapter! I plan on updating (or trying to) every Friday. At the moment, I plan on having this story be about five chapters in length and I'm hoping you'll stick around for the ride! If you enjoyed this, please check out my other TMNT works: "Gypsy" and "Forever On A Winter's Eve." I'd appreciate it!

Also, the current TMNT Fanfiction Competition is underway at the Stealthy Stories website (stealthystories DOT prophpbb DOT com). Please visit the site for the rules, details, and pertinent dates! Plus, stop by to hang out! A lot of cool people (SleepingSeeker, Terraform, Alex Hamato, BubblyShell22, TheIncredibleDancingBetty, Enimul, and The Nerdfighter [to name a few]) frequent the site…so stop by and say hi!

Thank you all for reading!


	3. A Season in Hell

**Chapter 3: A Season in Hell**

"Abashed the Devil stood and felt how awful goodness is and saw Virtue in her shape, how lovely: and pined his loss."- John Milton

Under cover of darkness, my memory my only guide, I make my way through the tunnels, sticking close to the inner wall—my fingers pressed against its slick, grimy surface—to minimize the sound of my footfalls. There was a time when visiting her apartment didn't require such stealth and subterfuge—a time when I could gladly declare my destination without a second thought—but those days are gone. Circumstances have changed. What was once so simple, so natural, has become needlessly complicated.

My heart skitters when I hear the sloshing of water up ahead. It approaches from the opposite direction, building upon itself with each passing moment. Immediately, I crouch, hoping to make myself invisible—a mere shadow in the blackness—and breathe in slowly and deeply to keep myself calm. But panic courses through me like quicksilver and it takes all of my will not to turn back. Moments such as these are the bane of an active mind. Rather than simply accepting the situation and dealing with it as it unfolds, I ponder a myriad of scenarios and outcomes, none of which are especially reassuring. Swallowing the lump in my throat as the steady plunking grows louder and heavier, I almost give in to my initial inclination to flee when a sudden splash holds me in place; fits of gagging, spitting, and profanity follow and have—oddly enough—a calming effect. A wave of relief washes over me as I get to my feet and make my way toward the commotion.

"Raph?" I manage, my words rough and raspy. "Raph, is that you?"

"Jesus, Egghead." He slurs. "Ya scared the hell outta me…"

"Oh. Sorry. You okay?"

"Yeah…" He stumbles clumsily in the direction of my voice until I can make out his form. With a flick of his hand, he whisks muck and slime from his shoulders and arms. "Whaddya doin' roamin' 'round here this time of night? Figured for sure you'd be tinkerin' in yer lab or sleepin' or somethin'."

"I suppose I could ask you the same thing. But, if you really must know, I'm on my way to the scrap-yard. I'm in need of some copper piping and wire."

"Really?" He chirps skeptically. "And ya didn't think to bring any tools or anythin' to carry shit in like ya usually do? What, getting' senile in yer old age?"

In my hurry to go to her, I forgot to bring all I would need to make my cover convincing. Though I can't see his eyes, I feel them raking over me.

"Well, uh… I-it wasn't n-necessary. I don't need m-much to finish the project I'm w-working on…" Every syllable sounds clumsy and feeble.

"Cut the crap, Donnie. You can't lie for shit. Never could." He ambles forward, teetering from side-to-side, until we're face to face. "Who do you think yer foolin'?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." I try to maneuver around him, but as I do, he thrusts his palm into my plastron; I stumble back, nearly losing my footing. "Jeez, Raph! What are you doing?!"

"I'm on my way back from Casey's. He told me all about their lil' spat. Personally, I don't care. It's nobody's business but theirs. They needta be the ones to work it out. I just stayed for the cold beer." He jabs me in the chest with his forefinger. "So tell me, lil' brother, what are you hopin' to 'ccomplish by goin' to her?"

The truth, though it pains me to admit it, is that I'm not sure. Our relationship, once cordial, has become cold and distant. She won't acknowledge what she did and I, ever the fool, won't demand an explanation. When she called, begging me to come by between heavy, heaving sobs, I knew going was a bad idea, but she sounded so genuine and vulnerable that I couldn't refuse.

"She's up-upset… She needs me…"

"Really? Why doesn't she just call one o' her girlfriends, then? They can share a pint of Ben and Jerry's, braid each other's hair, and talk 'bout how guys are scum. Why does she _need_ you, huh? Why does it _gotta _be you?"

Words fail me. He's unraveled my argument before I even have a chance to state my case.

"She trusts me."

"She's usin' you…"

"I'm her friend."

"Yer desperate…"

"I want to be there for her."

Before I even know what's happening, I'm on my back. Raph's on top of me, pinning my arms over my head. I buck and thrash and try to fight—sploshing and spattering fetid water in all directions—but he just leans his weight onto my wrists until I'm sure they're going to snap.

"Like SHE was THERE for YOU?!" He growls. In the stony corridor, his voice is like thunder. "She STOOD YOU UP! Left you crying at the goddamn table! She treated you like you DON'T FUCKIN' MATTER! So why should YOU go to her and listen to her shit and sop up her tears, HUH?!"

"GET OFF OF ME!" I roar, kicking and straining and shifting beneath him, anything to free myself. "LET ME GO!"

He tightens his grip on my wrists and leans in so close that our snouts practically touch. His eyes are wild. Fiery. Filled with a mix of emotions I can quite place. "Not 'til you tell me why… Give me a reason…"

The truth bursts from my lungs unabashedly despite its delicate nature: "BECAUSE I STILL LOVE HER, OKAY?! EVEN AFTER EVERYTHING THAT'S HAPPENED…I…I…still… love her."

He loosens his hold on me and shrinks back without a word. With a snort, he gets to his feet and turns away.

"Raph… look, I…"

He swings around and stomps up to me, his clumsy footfalls splattering filth every which way.

"No! You look, Donnie. This whole thing with April…it's gotta stop. Ya can't run to her every time she calls ya like some lovesick lil' puppy. I know ya don't like it and I know it's gotta hurt, but she's with Casey now. If that's what she wants, who'er you to stand in the way?" He calms down; his voice evens out. "Sometimes, ya just gotta let things go…"

The prospect of giving up, of stepping aside and letting everything play out accordingly, terrifies me. And terror, a monster in its own right, can make a man to do terrible things. As its icy tentacles wrap around my heart, every thought and filter in my mind abandons me; I am a rudderless ship, subject to every gale and breaker—to every raw and ragged emotion burning within me.

"Let it go? Just like that? You of all people know how I feel about her and you just want me to throw up my hands and let any chance I have slip through my fingers? No…I won't do that. Do you think it is easy for me to see them together? When they come around the Lair and they're holding each other close and laughing and flirting… Do you have any idea what that's like?! You think I should just decide: 'Well, this is good enough for me! Best wishes to you both and may your life together be filled with happiness!' NO! I won't accept it…and I certainly won't stand around and do nothing while the girl I love gives her heart to a… a…"

"To a what?" He glowers. "Wha' were ya gonna say?"

"To a Loser."

"So that's wha' this is about!" He roars. "It ain't about wha' makes April happy… It's about you! Poor lil' Brainiac can't stand that he lost April to someone like Casey… Well, I hate t' break it to ya, bro, but ya can't lose what ya never had…And if ya care about her at all, ya'd stay outta it."

I let my anger get the better of me; my tongue flies on its own: "What would you know about it anyway, Raph? What do you know about love, hmm? You're a hypocrite. You stand here and tell me to leave things as they are without ever having been in my position. It must be nice to know everything about everything…"

"Look, tha's not it…"

"No. Don't speak. All you care about is yourself and keeping your world as you like it. April's with Casey and that's how it's been and that's how you want to keep it." I shake my head in disgust. "Some brother you are. You know, over the years, I've let you get your way more often than I should've because it's easier than constantly fighting with you over every little thing. But I'm not going to do that this time… Not when the closest you've been to love are those two dollar hookers on Bleeker Street."

Hurt flashes across his face but disappears just as quickly. He glares at me—fuming—his muscles tensed and coiled like a serpent poised to strike, yearning to tear into me. But, to my surprise, he simply turns away.

"Go to Hell, Donnie. Make an absolute ass of yerself, see if I care…"

Without another word, he marches off in the opposite direction, muttering to himself and thrashing through the sludge beneath his feet. I can't help but feel the weight of regret press down upon me at the realization that, with a few careless words, I have forever altered things between us.

* * *

><p>I awaken to the shrieking of the teakettle, droplets of sweat clinging to me like a second skin. My heart is a jackhammer pounding against my ribs and no matter how I try, I can't seem to catch my breath. Mind meandering between haziness and clarity, fear—sharp and frigid—quivers through me; only when my surroundings come into focus do I realize that it was only a dream—a vivid recollection conjured by the subconscious and thrust upon me. I remind myself over and over until I finally accept it as truth. Lugging myself up from the cot, I wipe the sweat from my face, throw open the door to my lab, and venture toward the kitchen. At the table, clutching a cup of tea and staring listlessly at the steam coiling in the air, is Master Splinter. Sensing my approach, his whiskers twitch and he lifts his eyes.<p>

"Donatello," He says hoarsely. "It pleases me to see that you are well. Michelangelo informed me that you were feeling a bit under the weather earlier."

"Y-yes, Sensei. I was up all night redesigning the Stealth Cycle. I think, if given the time, I can build it better…stronger, even." A palpable tension permeates the room; sensing the shift in his demeanor, I casually redirect the conversation. "But Mikey was right; I wasn't feeling especially well earlier. I got some rest, though, and it seems to have done the trick…"

He sips his tea, his only reply a muffled murmur signifying neither affirmation nor condemnation. I pull a chipped coffee mug from the cupboard, fill it with hot water, and drop a bag of oolong tea into it.

"Leonardo tells me that the Purple Dragons are expecting a shipment of weapons this evening…"

The topic change catches me off-guard. "Y-yes, Sensei. We infiltrated one of their hideouts a few weeks back. I was able to hardwire a listening device into one of the electrical outlets. We overheard part of a phone conversation Fong was having with his supplier...we know they're going to be down by the docks later tonight awaiting the shipment with a small convoy of armed guards."

"I see." He sets down his cup and strokes his beard contemplatively. "Tell me, my son, do you believe you and your brothers can complete this mission without Raphael?"

"I-isn't that for Leo to decide?"

"I'm asking you."

I draw a breath to speak but come up empty. Uncomfortable, I take a swig of tea and a moment's pause but still my words stick to my tongue as though it is coated in tar. "I-I don't r-really think I s-should be the o-one who…"

"Answer the question, Donatello."

"Sensei, with respect, why are you asking me this?"

With a sigh, he pinches his eyes closed. For an instant—hunched over the table, moving slowly and deliberately—he looks frail; an emissary to some long-lost age, weathered and weary. "Because your judgment is sound. Because every choice I have made and every method I have employed to reach Raphael has failed. I have tried patience and understanding and he pushes me away. I have tried discipline and punishment as well. He takes whatever I subject him to willingly and then shuts me out." His chest heaves and his voice, already soft, wavers and breaks. "I have failed him. Time and again I have tried to help him find his path and time and again I have driven him further away…"

"You can't blame yourself for that." I take a seat beside him and lay my hand upon his. "It's not your fault…"

"Ah, but it is." He says. "Raphael's…affliction is but the latest in a long, troubling pattern of self-destructive behavior. When all of you were younger and his greatest vice was his temper, I foolishly believed that he would outgrow it—that time and maturity would have a calming effect. But I was wrong. Perhaps I should have done more to address it… but I never believed that he would stray so far…or sink so low as to endanger himself and disregard those around him…"

My father is a tempest-tossed ship navigating the waters of some voracious sea. Over the years, he has used his wisdom to guide us, as a seafaring man would use an astrolabe to read the stars. But greater forces—things that cannot be controlled, like the wind or weather—can cause untold hardship. Muddled skies and maelstroms can overwhelm even the most skilled sailor and all one can hope to do is stay afloat long enough to endure the experience. And if ever there was a force powerful enough to threaten Master Splinter's heart and trouble his sprit, it is Raphael.

"I know it probably doesn't mean much, Master Splinter, but I think Raph would have ended up where he is no matter what you did. Some people have a clear sense of purpose and direction from birth, it seems; others, well, they need to get in over their heads and make mistakes before they can begin to find their place in the world. I think Raph is one of those. It wouldn't have mattered if you heaped praise on him or punished him for every misstep…he would've ended up where he is because it's in his nature."

Master Splinter doesn't smile and he doesn't frown; instead, he stares into his cup with the intensity of a diviner reading tea leaves or oracle bones. "What matters to me most is that he lives long enough to learn from his mistakes. That is why, if the three of you can handle this mission, I would like to keep him here in the Lair and, for the foreseeable future, limit his access to the surface. I understand that this would be a burden for Leonardo, Michelangelo, and yourself…but I have faith in your abilities…"

Over time, all parents develop certain skills; tools of the trade designed to promote desirable behaviors while minimizing or eliminating conflict. Some have certain verbal cues that, when appropriately used, strike fear into the hearts of their children; some use thinly-veiled threats accompanied by very real, highly unpleasant consequences; still others employ a spoils system based exclusively on bribery designed to gently nudge those under its jurisdiction in the right direction. Such systems pale in comparison to Master Splinter's brand of authoritative leadership. Over the years, he has perfected the art of the loaded question. His words, when taken at face value, offer the illusion of alternatives; for instance, when he asked if I believed Leo, Mikey and I could handle the mission without Raphael, both 'yes' and 'no' appear to be viable options. But that is simply not the case. If I tell him we can't complete the mission without Raph, especially now after he has proposed we do just that, I run the risk of questioning his judgment or suggesting his faith is misplaced. And if I tell him I'm unsure, that there are far too many variables to take into account, I appear indecisive and dishwatery. All I can do, if I hope to stay in his good graces, is thrust my support behind the plan regardless of any misgivings I may have.

"We can handle it, Sensei." I say with a nod. "With the right plan, it shouldn't be a problem."

He smiles softly. "Good. As a parent, it is your most fervent hope that, should one of your children falter, the others will do whatever is necessary to help."

He finishes his tea and I mine. Neither of us speaks. Within the silence exists the mutual understanding of a truth so absolute and dreadful that mere mention of it could shake the very ground beneath us: this could well be Raph's last chance—the last hope he has of changing his ways and escaping his sickness unscathed. It's at the forefront of my mind and on the tip of my tongue, but there—and there alone—it remains.

Time passes, though it's difficult to tell how much. We glance at each other and back at the table, unsure of what to say or do next, but then, out of the blue, he clears his throat and asks: "What ails you, Donatello?"

"What ails me?" My voice cracks and trills; for a split-second I sound like my awkward teenage self. "I-I'm fine. I don't feel worn-down and lightheaded anymore, so that's a good sign, I suppose…"

"No…" His gaze is upon me but beyond me as well, as though something mystical lay spread out before him, readily perceptible to his keenly-tuned senses. "Not your body. What ails your spirit?"

"Nothing... I'm fine."

"I am unconvinced. Physically, you are present. That much is clear. But you are also elsewhere. Deep within, there is upheaval…disunity…the roots of a profound and all-consuming sorrow. And so I ask again, what ails you?"

Some people can be placated by half-truths and non-answers; others, more discerning and intuitive, persist until they uncover whatever lies beneath the surface. Master Splinter is a prime example of the latter. His presence alone, equally daunting and disarming, throws the mind into a tailspin and his probing questions, equally sharp and subtle, have the effect of sodium pentothal—in a matter of minutes, the answers he seeks are known to him. With a groan, I realize the futility of my position. All I can do is take a deep breath, speak from the heart, and hope that he doesn't wound me further.

"Well, uh… I guess I've been a little out of sorts because…"

A thunderous clang interrupts me. Flabbergasted, my heart jumps into my throat; such a shock is like a simultaneous detonation of every nerve in the body and it leaves me momentarily dazed. I get to my feet and move tentatively in the direction of the noise. Apart from volleys of shouting, indistinguishable in content but panicked and furious in tone, a strident hissing sound fills the Lair. I try to make sense of it all, but come up empty. I turn to Master Splinter; he simply stares back at me, the gears of his mind spinning away, his eyes beseeching me for answers.

"Donnie, Donnie, come quick!" Mikey runs into the room—his eyes as wide as saucers, his voice strained and frenzied—tailed by a cloud of steam billowing forth, wrapping around itself, and rising to the ceiling. "The boiler's busted! It's leaking all over the place!"

As I've gotten older, I have found that what's left unsaid is just as important as what's stated plainly. A few years ago, I would have thought nothing of Mikey's declaration apart from the obvious—that something is wrong with the boiler and it needs to be fixed. But now I know better. Words like 'busted' and 'leaking' raise red flags and several questions: How did the boiler 'bust'? Why is it 'leaking'? How did such an efficient, reliable piece of equipment suddenly erupt like Old Faithful? Clearly, there's more to the story; the information proffered doesn't link together logically. But at the moment, I don't have time to figure it all out. Choking back wariness like a bitter potion, I run to my lab and grab my tools.

I round the corner, moving as quickly and carefully as I can through the dense curtain of steam. Leo and Raph are standing against the opposite wall, bickering back and forth. I can't hear what they are saying, but they are gesticulating wildly—hands are being thrown up in disgust or defeat and fingers are being pointed accusatorily. I hit the floor, grab a wrench, and feel around for the shutoff valve; after a brief search, I find it and twist it closed. The hissing tapers off—becoming gradually quieter and less intrusive—until it vanishes entirely. After a minute or two, the fog-like veil lifts enough that I can see and assess the damage: the expansion tank, which regulates the system's pressure, is dented and ruptured and the pressure-reducing valve and associated pipe are pulled away at an odd angle and dripping profusely. I bury my face in my hands, unsure whether to laugh it off or cry.

Of my many projects and inventions, I have always been most proud of the Lair's heating system. As a kid, I remember spending many frigid nights huddled together with Leo, Raph, and Mikey under a pile of tattered blankets in front of an old, semi-functioning space heater. I also remember knowing that there had to be a better way to weather the winter months and I tasked myself with its discovery. My earliest attempts were crude and amateurish, but over time, they began to reflect my growth, experience, and confidence. The current system, fueled by natural gas I diverted from an underground pipe, took weeks to build from scavenged parts and salvaged mechanisms, and weeks more to install—a process that involved intricately weaving a web of piping throughout the Lair and into each room. It was, and in many ways continues to be, my _magnum opus;_ though oft-forgotten and taken for granted, it is an essential piece of equipment—complex and practical, the pinnacle of form and function intertwined. To see it damaged so severely—so inexplicably—shakes me to my core.

"What happened?!"

Nobody speaks. Master Splinter, ambling from the kitchen slowly in measured steps, fills the hallway, wafting the steam from his stern, steely visage; Mikey sidles up behind him looking small and scared, simpering nervously. Leo's eyes, practically sharpened to points, are fixed on Raph, whose entire being—from his expression to his body language—is a scarlet letter.

"Tell him, Raph." Leo says. "Tell Donnie what happened."

Raph grumbles under his breath, all the while refusing to look at me. "It was 'n accident, ok? Jesus, you act like I took a fuckin' hammer to it or somethin'."

"An accident?!" Leo fumes. "You staggered right into it! You lost your balance, tripped over your own feet, and grabbed onto the pipe so you wouldn't fall…"

"Sounds like 'n accident t' me…"

"Accidents are what happen when there's no one at fault. You make the conscious decision to drink the way you do, so how is what happens when you're drunk not your fault?"

"Go blow it out yer ass, Leo. We can't all be perfect lil' robots like you…"

Leo draws a deep breath and holds it for a ten count, seemingly suffocating his rage through sheer force of will. Preserving the tenuous peace, he ignores Raph's crude comment and turns to me.

"How bad is it, Donnie? Can it be fixed?"

With a sigh, I inspect the boiler once more. Repairing machinery is a harrowing process, as all parts, no matter how small or outwardly insignificant, play a role in the operation of the system. When something breaks or wears out, there is a degree of dread that accompanies its discovery, for sometimes blissful ignorance is preferable to the sobering reality of the damage's full extent. In this case, I have every reason to be anxious. Though only the pressure-reducing valve and expansion tank are beyond repair, finding functioning replacements in the junkyard will be no small task.

"I'll need to go out and find replacement parts…It might take some time. Usually, anything worth saving on these units gets stripped, refurbished, and resold."

"Couldn't you order them on on-line?" Mikey offers, peeking out from behind Master Splinter. "You could have them shipped to Casey's and everything…it'd be simple."

"It's a good idea, but a last resort, I'm afraid." I wipe a mixture of sweat and water vapor from my forehead. "It would take a few days to get here and the temperature has been dipping below zero the last few nights… I'd rather try to find a suitable replacement in the junkyard before going down that road."

"So what do we do in the meantime?" Leo asks softly.

"Well, best case scenario, I find the part as soon as I can and make the repair; worst case, we have space heaters and blankets. But I worry more about a lot of the other equipment—especially the plumbing. Sure, we're below the frost-line, but as the temperature drops, the water in those pipes will expand. And if they burst, we'll have major problems, especially with all of the electronics and electrical components we have down here."

"Well, no sense wastin' time here, Genius. Ya might as well get goin' insteada sittin' there lookin' like someone pissed on yer Cornflakes."

I'm on my feet before I know it—my heart pistoning, my blood boiling, my feeble hold on calmness and composure slipping steadily away. "Well, if you'd be more careful instead of slamming around like a bull in a china shop, maybe I wouldn't NEED TO GO running out in the freezing cold just to look for parts so I can clean up YOUR mess!"

"Dudes!" Mikey squeaks, stepping cautiously toward Raph and I. "Just calm down… Just take a few deep breaths and calm down… Donnie, I'll go with you! I'll help you find the tank thingy, just please… relax…"

Raph stomps closer, mere inches away. "Well, SHIT HAPPENS, MAN! You jump all o'er my case over somethin' like this?! This ain't no big thing, just a stupid little tank and piece 'o pipe. Calm down, pop some Midol, and get workin'."

His eyes, sunken and bloodshot, stare into mine; the muscles in his neck tighten and jump and the corners of his mouth tug upward, into a crooked, arrogant smirk. Something within me shifts. All of my anger, my resentment, everything I've bottled away, combusts. The drumming of my heart fills my ears and my surroundings fade to black. Only he remains. He and I. Every atom of my being erupts in a surge of manic energy, primal and absolute; it overwhelms me, drowning out my thoughts and short-circuiting my conscience.

The next I know, I am upon him. His head snaps to the right as my fist batters his eye; it snaps back to the left when I catch him in the jaw. Dazed, he tries to throw me to the side, but I bear down, hook my fingers under his plastron and drive his head into the concrete—once; twice; three times. A chorus of garbled voices fills the air around me, screaming and pleading. I pay no mind. My fists fly on their own until his face is swollen and bloody and his body is limp beneath me. And then my hands find their way to his throat. He sputters, wheezing, his breaths erratic and spasmodic. I tighten my grip until I hear him gurgling—until his eyes bulge and his fingers claw at my wrists. And then there is a sea of hands—around my neck, pulling at my arms, wrapping around my middle. They drag me away, pull me to the floor, and hold me in place. I snap and growl and struggle against them, but I can barely move. Through it all—though it seems far off—a voice, soft and soothing, reaches me.

"Breathe, Donnie…" It says. "Just breathe…"

Incrementally, the world comes back into focus: Mikey is kneeling in front of me, my ankles firmly in his grasp; Leo and Sensei both have one of my arms pinned under theirs, their free hands pressing down on my plastron. They don't speak, but they don't have to. I can see it in their eyes. Shock. Horror. Disbelief. It radiates from them. Meekly, I turn away. I can't stand to look at them, not now, not as my body trembles of its own accord, drunk on adrenaline and rage. Staring at the opposite wall, my cheek pressed against the floor, I try to convince myself that I didn't mean it—that I never meant to lose control and hurt him as I did. But as he gasps for air between hacking coughs and pained moans, the truth in all of its wretchedness is plain to me. Tears slip from my eyes.

"Donatello…" Master Splinter says evenly. "We're going to release you. Are you certain that, when we do, you will be calm?"

I nod. Guardedly, they let me go. I sit up slowly, propping myself with my arms. That's when I see him collecting himself, wiping blood and strands of spit from his bruised and swollen face, looking more like minced meat than himself. It's more than I can take. I scramble to my feet and make a beeline for my lab. Wasting no time, I grab my duffel bag, fill it with tools, and sling it over my shoulder, but before I can steal myself away, Leo is standing in my doorway.

"Donnie, are you okay?"

"No…I'm not." Nervously, I wring my hands; a jolt of pain accompanies the motion, courtesy of my busted knuckles. "I gotta go. I can't stay here, not now. I can't face everyone, not yet…"

"But the mission…the shipment…"

"I know…and I'm sorry. I really am, Leo…"

His face betrays no emotion; his lips press into a tight line. If he is disappointed in me, it is a secret unto himself. "Don't be so hard on yourself. So you lost it for a second… it happens sometimes. Raph's been pushing and pushing and he went too far. And you've been under a lot of stress lately as it is. Trust me, all of us…we understand."

"That's not it." My eyes lock onto his. "If it was as simple as that, I could forgive myself. I wouldn't be proud of it by any means, but I could move past it. As it is, I can't. Not yet." I shake my head and swallow hard. "I…I…enjoyed it. Losing myself, I mean…beating him. I enjoyed it. So much so that I don't know if I would have been able to stop myself… I mean, he's my brother for Christ's sake and I nearly… I might've… How am I supposed to trust myself after that? Or expect you to trust me?"

"I trust you…" He says. "With my life. With all that I am, I trust you."

I readjust the straps on my bag, double-check my tools, zip and unzip the various compartments only to zip them up again, anything to keep my hands busy and mind occupied. "That means a lot to me, really it does. But until I sort things out, I'm no good to you. Besides, it won't be long until it's almost as cold down here as it is topside. And you know me... I'll be so wrapped up thinking about the heat and fixing the boiler that I'll be distracted." I force myself to smile. "One of the pitfalls of a one-track mind…"

As Leo opens his mouth, presumably to object, Master Splinter labors into the room, his hands folded into the sleeves of his _kimono. _He carries himself like a man defeated: his shoulders are slumped and his lips are pursed. At first, he says nothing; he simply looks at us, lost in contemplation. After a moment, with a heavy sigh and shake of his head, he speaks: "Leonardo. Donatello. A word, please."

"_Hai_, Sensei." We reply in unison.

He clears his throat and clucks his tongue. "As you well know, it was my intention not to involve Raphael in this evening's mission but, in light of what has happened, I feel it best that he partake in it while you, Donatello, look for whatever you need to make your repairs…" His gaze pulls to Leo. "Leonardo, Raphael is your responsibility. I am entrusting you with his direct return. He is not to go anywhere without you at his side. When he returns to the Lair, his confinement will begin. I trust this is acceptable?"

Another loaded question. Leo stiffens beside me. "_Hai_, Sensei."

Satisfied, he excuses himself with a small nod, the smoky scent of jasmine incense lingering in his stead. Leo murmurs under his breath, pacing back and forth restlessly.

"Jeez…" I say, absently running my fingers over the nylon strap of the duffel bag. "This is all my fault. I didn't mean to put you in such an awful fix… I've really mucked everything up."

"It's fine." He assures me. "It can work. It has to. Go. Go look for the parts you need. If anything comes up, I'll give you a call, okay?"

I grab my _bo_ from beside the door and slide it into its sheath across my carapace; then, I pull my worn leather duster down from its hook, fold it over my arm, and lay it atop the duffel bag. "If ANYTHING comes up, ANYTHING at ALL, you make the call, alright?"

He nods affirmative and steps aside, allowing me to pass. I make it to the turnstiles before his voice stops me.

"Donnie…" I look at him over my shoulder. The ghost of a grin carves a path across his face. "I hope you find what you're looking for…"

The parts? Solace? I can't quite be sure. Though his loyalties are clear and his motives doubly so, his innermost thoughts are kept sealed away—the sanctum of his mind the only part of him that hasn't been irrevocably altered from the pressure and responsibility of leading; the only thing he has ever withheld or denied us. Whatever his meaning, I turn away and head toward the tunnels, feeling as vile and base as the contents therein.

* * *

><p>When I reach the surface, the icy cold nips at my skin and knifes at my face, chilling me to the core. I slip the bag from my shoulder, put on my jacket, and tie it closed. Dusk is dying a slow death in the west; the sky, sickly and ashen, is mired in low-hanging clouds heavy with snow. Countless cars lend their gravelly voices to the night, a countermelody to the dirge sung by the howling wind, and the city lights burn like a hearth, the only haven from the encroaching darkness. Drawing a deep breath, I replace the bag across my shoulder, climb a nearby fire escape, and pull myself onto the roof; then, I take off in the direction of the salvage yard.<p>

Bounding from rooftop to rooftop, I notice the people below. Their hands are laced together. Their arms are folded around one another. Their faces are aglow. They exude warmth. They laugh freely. I can't help but feel a world away—like a jilted voyeur intruding on some private, precious moment—and though I'm ashamed to admit it, I also can't help feeling bitter. To them, love comes naturally. It's something to be celebrated, something beautiful and pure. At its finest, it nourishes the heart, replenishes the spirit, and satisfies the body. And if the fire smolders out, and passions kindled are reduced to ash, they simply seek a new flame. But for my brothers and me—for ones whose very existence is an affront to nature—love is elusive. Painfully so.

It pains me to think that they may never find love; that their hearts will be neglected and their virtues unsung. They are more than deserving of affection, more than deserving of tender kisses and lingering embraces. They deserve to be happy; to discover and unravel the mysteries of love in all its splendor. Failing that—to believe that Leo's loyalty and gentle heart, Mikey's boundless positivity and unfailing humor, and Raph's fire and passion will pass into the ages unknown to the world—is almost more than I can bear.

Night has descended by the time I reach the salvage yard. On its east side, the furthest from the office, a sequence of links in the fence have been cut, presumably by thieves or local hoods. I slip through, make my way past mountains of rusty scrap, and begin searching through rows of discarded equipment—mainly hot water tanks, sump pumps, and furnaces. I clear the first two rows without much luck; there's a boiler in the third, but it's an ancient ruin of oxidized iron, peeling and flaking from years in the elements. Continuing along row after row, I find little of use, but press on; after a while, my frozen fingers begin to tingle and my hands feel stiff and clumsy. I rub them together vigorously, but it does little—the relief is fleeting and quick to fade. As are my hopes.

After hours in the blustery wind examining row after row of discarded equipment, I strongly consider ending my search. But then, jutting from beneath an overturned chest freezer, I see it—a gas-fired boiler similar to the unit in the Lair. Using my _bo _as a lever, I pry the freezer from away from it and look it over; apart from some surface damage, it is intact and in fair condition. I drop my bag from my shoulder, grab my tools, and begin stripping all of the usable components. It takes me some time, but before long I'm on my way back home.

I get to the manhole, pry it open, and journey down the rebar ladder. As soon as I set foot down below, however, my T-phone rings, its pitchy trill near-deafening, amplified by the unforgiving acoustics of the sewer.

"Donatello."

"Donnie, we have a problem." Leo's voice, though calm, retains an undercurrent of exasperation. "It's Raph. One of the Purple Dragons gave us the slip and he off took after him. According to the tracker in his T-Phone, he's only a few blocks away from you. Do you think you could you go and try to find him?"

"Absolutely. Of course."

"Good. Mikey and I have a few things to wrap up over here at the docks. We shouldn't be long, though. We'll see you back at the Lair."

With a groan, I stash my bag near the base of the ladder and pull up the GPS interface on my T-phone. Raph's beacon rests steadily at the corner of Fleener and Forsyth—mere blocks away, just as Leo said. Guilt takes hold of me with a vengeance. This is my fault. If I hadn't allowed my emotions to get the better of me, none of this would have happened. Raph would have stayed underground and I would have gone on the mission as planned. And while it's foolish to quibble over what's in the past, it vexes me nonetheless. After all, nothing is more parasitic than an unclean conscience.

In a flurry, I'm up the ladder, scaling the fire escape, and pulling myself onto the roof. Though the wind thrashes and cuts me and anxiety settles in my stomach like a stone, I run; though my mind is a spill canvas of guilt and regret, of ambivalence and assurance, I run; and though he may never be as he was—the brother I remember, the pillar of strength—I run. But when I get to the roof adjacent to the address indicated, I take pause. Rather than a known hideout or seedy flophouse, it is an apartment building in a quiet residential area. Perplexed, I proceed with caution. It isn't until I round the water tank that I see it: a table set for two. Twin fire-bowls burn nearby, breathing heat and life into the night. On the table, lilies sit in a crystal vase surrounded by flickering tea-candles; a bottle of wine and two fluted glasses surely await a pair of lovers eager to spend the night in the glow of candlelight and stars and the warmth of the fire and wine. Part of me, the jealous part, wants to bring my _bo_ down on the table until only shattered remnants remain, but I hold fast. It's not important. Not now.

I take a quick look around but see no sign of Raph. Cursing my rotten luck, I turn to check the surrounding buildings when the roof access door swings open. Before I can bring myself to run or leave in a huff of smoke, I catch a glimpse and am anchored in place.

There, in the doorway, in a flowing black dress, she stands.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Sorry about the delay on this chapter! It definitely taxed me time and again, but I hope that it was worth the wait! That being said, please let me know what you think! I greatly appreciate any and all feedback I receive! If you enjoyed this, please check out my other TMNT works: "Gypsy" and "Forever On A Winter's Eve." I'd appreciate it!

Also, the current TMNT Fanfiction Competition is underway at the Stealthy Stories website (stealthystories DOT prophpbb DOT com). Please visit the site for the rules, details, and pertinent dates! Plus, stop by to hang out! A lot of cool people (SleepingSeeker, Terraform, Alex Hamato, BubblyShell22, TheIncredibleDancingBetty, Enimul, and The Nerdfighter [to name a few]) frequent the site…so stop by and say hi!

Thank you all for reading!

**ALSO: **My esteemed colleague Terraform will be publishing an M-rated fic entitled, "Cupid." It's AprilxDon centric and is beautifully written (one of the best I've read) and not only has delightful sensual scenes but hilarious moments of brotherly love as well! Please, when she publishes it, give it a read!


	4. Phantasmagoria

**Chapter 4: Phantasmagoria **

"Did she make you cry,

Make you break down,

Shatter your illusions of love?

And is it over now?

Do you know how,

To pick up the pieces and go home?"

-Fleetwood Mac, "Gold Dust Woman"

"April..?"

"Donnie…"

She moves toward me from the doorway, her every step punctuated by the _clickety-clack _of her high heels against the concrete.

"What're…what're you doing here? I-I thought that the semester doesn't end until sometime in May…"

"It doesn't, but I needed to come home. I have some business here that I need to take care of and it really couldn't wait." She smiles brightly and shrugs. "Besides, I've been a bit homesick anyway. I've missed the city: the hustle and bustle, the noise, even the smell… I guess absence really does make the heart grow fonder…"

"I guess…" My eyes dart from the table to the ground to the buildings nearby, anything to avoid looking at her directly. Sensing my discomfort, she opens her mouth to speak—presumably to say something mollifying—but I cut her off. "Uh, well… I hope everything works out for you. I really have to get going. I'd hate to spoil your evening and, besides, Leo has me out looking for Raph. I followed his signal here so he has to be close…" Feeling intrepid and a little vindictive, I add: "You haven't seen him, have you?"

She runs her hands over her dress, smoothing the creases and waves in the fabric, but says nothing; her prolonged silence is practically an admission of guilt. My insides somersault and drop. The very idea of her having secret rendezvous with Raph is enough to make my heart ache anew but, with more pressing matters to attend to, I push it to the furthest recesses of my mind.

"April… It's important. Have you seen him?"

She clears her throat and motions to the table. "Maybe you should have a seat…"

"I'd rather stand." I fold my arms across my chest. "Whatever you need to say, just say it. There's no need to be coy or beat around the bush."

She presses a hand to her forehead and sighs, visibly flustered. There was a time when seeing her in such a state would've broken my resolve and bent me to her will, but no longer. Surprisingly, I feel very little—a pang of longing for days gone by, but not much else.

"I…want to…um, I just want to..." She throws up her hands and giggles nervously. "Why is this so hard..?"

"I don't have time for this…"

She snatches my hand. "Donnie, wait! Please! Don't go, not yet!"

I whip around and pull away from her, my hold over my senses slipping. My blood reaches a rolling boil, fuelled by the flames of anger. "What do you WANT from me?! Permission? My blessing? No, you don't need either, do you? You'll do whatever you want no matter what, you always have…"

"Donnie, that's not…"

"Oh, save it!" Only now do I realize that I'm looming over her—my muscles bunched, my teeth gritted, my face gnarled by spite; she, on the other hand, keeps giving ground, practically trembling, her blue eyes noticeably wide and fearful. "You forget that I know how you are when you see something you want. Nothing stands in your way until you get it. But answer me this: is it ever enough? Once you have him—heart, body, and mind—will it be enough?"

"You have it all wrong! That's not it at all…"

Something within her words—a flicker of desperation or trepidation, I know not which—brings me pause and I shrink back. Often, those spurned yearn for retribution. Bitterness does that to a person, after all. It is a poison seed sewn in one's core and if allowed, it will propagate and choke out other, more beneficial, sentiments. I would love to proclaim immunity, but that would be a lie. There were nights—long, endless nights—where I cursed her name; where I wished that we'd never met; where I hoped that she was unhappy, as though her misery would somehow bring an end to mine. But now, standing before her, looking upon her, I can't bring myself to wound her. I raise my eyes to the stars and shake my head, incredulous.

"Look, it… doesn't matter. I'm not your keeper and you certainly don't owe me any explanations. I just… I just, well… I really hope that you know what you're doing, April…"

"I don't think I follow…"

"With Raph… That's what this is about, right? You two are…" I take a moment and force the words out. "…seeing each other and this is your way of breaking it to me, right?"

She pulls a stray strand of hair behind her ear and looks away. Though I can't be certain, I swear I see unshed tears glimmering in her eyes. "Is that what you think of me? You honestly believe I'd do something like that..?"

"I don't know… There was a time when I thought I knew everything about you; a time when we shared everything—thoughts, feelings, secrets, dreams—all of it. I remember nights when you would sit beside me in my lab while I was working on one thing or another and we'd just talk and talk… and it came so naturally. But now..? Time has passed and things have changed. Who's to say you haven't changed, too?"

"If I have, I wouldn't be the only one…"

"Trust me, I know I've changed. And it hasn't all been for the better…" I try to keep my tone even and unreadable, but it's a struggle. "The truth is, I don't know what to think of anyone anymore, not even myself. Things just aren't as simple as they used to be; lately, right and wrong seem to be cut from the same fabric. So tell me, April, what should I think of you? What should I believe?"

She catches a chill, shudders, and rubs warmth and color into the gooseflesh on her arms. "I'd like you to believe that I never meant to hurt you, that I never stopped caring about you, that I simply made a foolish mistake… I'd like you to think the best of me, just as you always used to. But I'm not naïve…"

Her shivering becomes more pronounced. I peel off my jacket and hold it open for her; with a small smile, she nods her appreciation, slips her arms into the sleeves, and pulls it closed—the sheer mass of the garment swallows her slender form. She leads me from the edge of the roof to its center, closer to the table. For a moment, neither of us speaks, content to watch the fire-bowls burn and the flames lap at the darkness.

"I don't blame you for thinking the worst of me. I've made so many mistakes and I've let myself veer off-course more times than I can count. I'm not proud of it. It's not something I even like to acknowledge most days…"

She walks slowly in measured steps to the table. There, under the lid of a serving dish, she produces Raph's T-phone. With a modicum of either reluctance or worry, she takes a seat and gestures for me to join her.

"I haven't been completely honest with you…"

Equally dumbstruck and baffled, I settle into my seat. She busies herself—straightening the linen napkins, adjusting the tea-candles, uncorking the wine—to expend her nervous, otherwise aimless, energy. Moments slip away. Then minutes. I try to make sense of the situation, however every angle I consider either raises more questions than it resolves or leads to a conclusion I'm unwilling to accept.

"I don't… I… I'm afraid I don't understand…"

"This isn't the easiest thing for me to admit, so I'm just going to lay it all on the line…" She folds her hands, lacing her fingers together tightly. At first, I believe it is an act of condescension disguised as decorum, but then I notice that her hands—even clasped together—are quavering. "I've wanted to speak with you for a while now, if only to clear the air. But after what I did and how badly I messed everything up, I didn't know if you'd give me the time of day, much less agree to see me. So, I called your brothers and asked if they'd be willing to help me out—to get me face-to-face with you so I could say everything I've been meaning to say. And…well… they weren't exactly thrilled about the idea. Raph, though, seemed receptive to it and, after several long conversations, agreed to help. That's why you're here now, actually… That's why I have this…" She holds his T-phone aloft and sets it in front of me.

The realization is a concussive shock. My coming here wasn't mere happenstance; I was lured, tricked. I bring my fist down on the table. Hard. The plates and flatware jump and jangle and the wine glasses tip and roll; April, on the other hand, recoils, noticeably alarmed—just as I've come to understand her deception, she's come to understand her control over the situation is tenuous.

"You're unbelievable… Of all the underhanded moves, this certainly beats all…"

"It was the only way I knew I could see you." Her voice is milk and honey—soothing and sweet in an effort to calm me. "Please, try to understand…"

"What's there to understand? You pitted my brother against me, involved him in your scheme, and—in so doing—dragged me out here in the middle of the night and for what? So you can make a fool of me again? So you can reopen old wounds..? Raph would LOVE that! C'MON OUT, RAPH! YOU GOT ME!"

"He's not here." She whimpers with a shake of her head. Absently, she takes one of the napkins in her hands, twisting and wringing it. "All he did was leave me his T-phone… that's it. Nothing more."

My frustration mounts. "Well, where is he? Do you know where he's going? What he's doing? Anything?"

"N-no, not really… I mean, when he came he told me he only had a few minutes, that he had something he had to do, something important, but he didn't explain and I didn't press. He looked awful, though. His face was really bruised and swollen…"

For an instant, guilt snakes through me, but then I remember that he helped stage this charade and as quickly as it materialized, the feeling fades. The breath in my lungs escapes in a strange half-sigh, half-growl and I roughly pinch my eyes closed. "Oh, this is just perfect. He's probably gallivanting about and stealing fifths of whiskey from sleeping transients… Leo's gonna kill me."

Her lips press into a line. "Well, it's comforting to know I'm not the only one you think so lowly of."

One quality that attracted me to April is her uncompromising steadfastness. Whether championing a cause or espousing a point of view, her dedication is unparalleled. Yet, the same quality that has served her so well in the past makes her seem dogmatic at present.

"Maybe you haven't noticed because you've been away, but I'm not the only one who's changed. Raph..? He's a shell of who he used to be. All he does is drink. I'm amazed he can stand half the time. Sensei's at his wit's end, Leo's under tremendous stress trying to hold everything together, and Mikey is trying so hard to keep the peace that it's wearing him down… I haven't seen him really smile in months. Everything's a wreck… and it's mostly Raph's fault. But I'm supposed to put him on a pedestal and pretend the last few years didn't happen? Please…"

"That's not what I'm saying." She huffs. "He's made mistakes, sure, but who hasn't? Everyone has moments of weakness or insecurity, the only difference is how they cope. Some people, like you, have productive coping mechanisms while other people's methods, like Raph's, are more…destructive. But that doesn't mean that he's a bad person…"

Though her assessment of the situation is fair and her intentions are undoubtedly good, a powerful and ugly force inside of me rears up and seizes the opportunity, not to agree or disagree, but rather muddy the waters by dredging up the past.

"I know he's not a bad person." I rest my elbows on the table and lean in closer; so close that the heat from the tea-candles warms my cheeks. "You know, there's a part of me that has always looked up to him. He's always been so strong—practically fearless—and though he could be crude or sarcastic, you just knew he had your back. But all of that changed when he started hanging out with your ex. Ever since then, he hasn't been the same."

Her expression—once as bright and charming as a clear, cerulean sky—darkens and in her eyes, thunderheads brew and swirl. "So all of Raph's problems are Casey's fault now? Give me a break…"

"You can choose not to see it if you want to. If you want to pretend that Casey's not at all to blame, then go right ahead, but the facts are clear. Even if you want to make the case that Raph would have started drinking regardless, you can't deny that Casey served as a catalyst of sorts…" I chuckle dryly. "A real prize, that one…"

The breeze kicks up and catches us; she pulls the front of my jacket closed and wraps her arms around herself, steeling herself against it. Her eyes pull to the buildings nearby, each embossed against the sky, looking cold and lifeless save the dim lights burning therein.

"Casey has issues. Everybody knows that. It's one of the reasons our relationship didn't work out." She rests her gaze upon me. "And I understand that you're angry with me—and you have every right to be—but for you to bring up Casey just to throw him in my face..? Well, I guess I thought that was beneath you."

"Beneath me?" The irony of her words is nothing short of comical. A half-smile lurches across my face. "I've never claimed to be perfect. I have my fair share of flaws: I can be impersonal, impatient, mildly condescending, the list goes on. And I, too, have done things that I'm not proud of… but the difference between you and me is that I acknowledge my faults; I don't try to hide them. That WOULD BE 'beneath me.'"

Her features slacken. Without a word, she reaches for the bottle of wine, pours herself a glass, and downs it in a quick, swift gulp.

"You're right..." She admits. "It's true that I haven't always been honest with myself or those around me. And when I was scared or overwhelmed, or if I felt threatened in some way, I'd bury what I was feeling so I could avoid dealing with it. Not anymore, though. I'm trying to change. It took me a while, but I've decided to start over—to rebuild my life from the ground up. THAT is why I'm here. THAT is why I wanted to see you."

I try to think of something to say, but words fail me. Instead, I nod and gesture for her to continue.

"I want to tell you how sorry I am. I've wanted to tell you for a long time. You might not believe this, but not a day went by where I didn't think about what I did to you. Not a day. I was—and still am—so ashamed of how I acted. It was just an awful thing to do…"

As I watch her every movement and hang on her every word, memories of that night flicker past my mind's eye like a series of still-life photographs: the tidiness of the Lair, the immaculate place-settings, how the candlelight swayed and danced upon the walls. I draw a deep breath and swallow hard. If there's one thing I know for certain, it's that opportunity waits for no one; if I don't seek closure now, I may not get another chance.

"Then why'd you do it, April? Why'd you stand me up?"

She sighs heavily and pours herself a second glass of wine. "Because I was afraid. I was a coward. I was an absolute idiot. Fear set up shop and I began having all of these irrational thoughts—completely illogical and totally stupid—like 'What would people think?' and 'How could we ever make this work?' By the time Valentine's Day rolled around, I was so mixed up that I couldn't think straight. So I copped out. I took the easy way out to spare myself the pain of having to look you in the eye and risk breaking your heart."

"I see..." I manage, my throat suddenly dry. "I really wish you would have told me. Maybe I wouldn't have been thrilled, but I would have understood. It took me so long to work up the nerve to even ask you out because I was afraid being with someone…someone…like me…would be too difficult to reconcile."

She brings the glass to her lips and takes a long, slow drink. "This is going to sound ridiculous, but I guess I worried that, if I called off our date, you would think I was being shallow. I didn't want you to think that I was at all repulsed by you because I'm not and have never been. I just didn't know how to tell you or explain what I was feeling, so I stayed away… It was only when I thought about it from your perspective that I realized you would take it exactly as I hoped you wouldn't."

"How else could I take it? I figured that you came to your senses and that I was kidding myself from the start… A freak with his head in the clouds…"

"Don't say that!" She snaps. "You're no more a freak than I am…"

Under normal circumstances, I would chalk up any such statement to kindness, consideration, or mild inebriation. But, I can tell she means it: there's steadiness in her gaze and earnestness in her voice. Combined, they are a salve unto my wounds.

"But you're not…"

"I am…" Tears tremble in her eyes and race down her cheeks. "Even when I realized what a huge mistake I made, I couldn't bring myself to admit I was wrong. So, I tried to pretend I was happy and hoped that if I believed I was, I would be."

"Were you..?"

"There were moments…but they never lasted long. There was always something missing; a void that couldn't be filled, no matter how I tried."

She lightly dabs each eye with the corner of her napkin and gently blots each cheek. Seeing her so emotional—so vulnerable—rouses something within me. Dormant feelings stretch their atrophied muscles and limber their palsied hands, poised to take hold of me again.

"But with Casey… whenever you came around you were smiling and laughing and flirting… It… well, it wasn't easy for me to watch by any means, but I was certain you were happy…"

"I was for a little while, but only for a little while. Casey needed me. I had my life in order and his was a mess. I wanted to help him, to 'fix' him and get him on the right path. He was my project… The more he needed me and the more time we spent together, the less time I had to fret about what was missing in my life… or to realize how unhappy I really was…"

"I don't get it…" I rest my cheek on my hand, propped by an elbow. "Why put yourself or anyone else through something like that? If all he was to you was a project—if you knew your feelings went no further—why do it?"

"I had to prove something to myself. I had to test a theory. You of all people should appreciate that."

"Fair enough. What did you discover?"

"Funny you should ask…" She finishes her second glass of wine. Her hands have stopped shaking and her cheeks are visibly flush. "Do you remember that night when I called you and asked you to come over?"

There are different breeds of memory. Over time, some fade and wilt; the aura remains, but the details become hazy, like a mirage subliming the horizon. Others, though, are indelible; a moment in time encapsulated in amber and preserved. I've returned to that night countless times. Everything—from stumbling across Raph in the sewers to the arid sweetness of the summer air to the feeling of her body pressed against mine when she threw her arms around me and wept—is clear.

"Yes. Of course." My words, tempered by nostalgia, sound worn and frayed at the edges. "Why?"

"I meant to tell you then...because I knew…" She shifts anxiously in her seat and clears her throat. "But what did I do instead? I blathered on and on about all of my problems... I ranted and raved and carried on for hours… But I never said the one thing I meant to say. Instead, I took the easy way out and ran to California…"

"You didn't run..."

"C'mon, Donnie… There's a reason I chose Stanford… Why go away when almost every Ivy League University is right here in the northeast? No, I ran. I guess I thought if I put enough distance between myself and my past that I could start over. But, it didn't quite work out as I hoped."

"Why not?"

"Because you don't keep looking for something after you've found it." She reaches across the table and lays her hand upon mine. "And it's you. No matter who I dated, how far I ran, or how I tried to convince myself otherwise, it's always been you."

Time stands on edge; everything around us seems subdued, diminished, and entirely subordinate to her. I take in the sight of her, looking more radiant than ever—a bejeweled temptress in a worn leather jacket. I have to remind myself to breathe, all the while searching for the right words.

"S-so, you're s-saying that..?"

"Yes."

"But… why, April? Why now? If you've known you've felt this way, why wait so long to tell me?"

She sighs heavily and I can tell straightaway that she's uneasy, perhaps worried that her answer will sound absurd or fail to satisfy me. And though my mind and heart are at war and my very spirit is the battlefield, I find myself gently squeezing her hand.

"Well," She says meekly, "I guess I thought that there would be this special moment when it would just feel right and come easily; that I would tell you how I felt and everything would turn out right. But it never happened. In distancing myself I made sure of that, though I didn't mean to. But I did have a moment of clarity. I was leaving the library at school one night when I saw this old woman sitting on a bench, waiting for the bus. She was tossing bits of bread to the pigeons and talking either to them or herself because she was all alone. I'd never seen her before and I didn't know her…but I started to cry and I couldn't stop. It was like looking through a window to the future. I saw myself in her and it terrified me and I thought: 'What if I've pushed everyone away?' 'What if things never change or get better?' I knew at that moment that I had to try to fix things; that I couldn't keep running." Though she is on the verge of tears, she titters. "I guess you could say that fear drove me away and brought me back."

I move from my seat and kneel beside her. "You're here now. That's what matters. You don't have to be afraid anymore."

Misty-eyed, she gently runs her fingers down my cheek and along my jaw. "How I ever could have hurt you, I'll never know…"

She looks upon me and I upon her. An electric titillation charges the atmosphere and every atom of every molecule seems to hum. Between us lies something unspoken yet undeniable; something that strengthens the magnetism drawing us closer, inch by glorious inch, until our lips meet. At first, our kiss is feather-light and restrained; a fluttery graze to warm the body and send the heart pattering. But as the moments pass, it deepens, and I soar beyond the confines of possibility to a place that existed—until now—only in my dreams.

"Donnie," She says breathlessly, "I've made a lot of mistakes... But I want you to know that I'll do whatever it takes to earn your trust again. I know it'll take time, but…"

I wrap my arms around her and silence her with a kiss.

"I've got time." I say with a smile.

We talk for hours, until the fire-bowls burn to dying embers and the sun winks at us over the horizon. We speak of hopes and dreams; of fears and frailties. We talk until the tea-candles snuff themselves out and the last bottle of wine is empty. And then we sit in silence—pleasantly intoxicated, our fingers intertwined—and watch the sun rise in the east. And I feel complete.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Again, apologies for the delay. In spite of the fact that this chapter isn't nearly as long as its predecessor, it was decidedly difficult for me to write as I often found myself toeing a fine line with the dialogue and such. Hopefully, you all enjoyed this installation and my M. Night Shyamalan-esque plot twist. Please let me know if you did (or did not!)

Also, the Stealthy Stories Fanfic Competition is in full-swing at the Stealthy Stories website (stealthystories DOT prophpbb DOT com). Stop on by for all of the pertinent information!

Finally, I'd be remiss if I didn't mention some of the better works I've had the pleasure of reading recently. "I, Alone" by SleepingSeeker continues to thrill and is heading into the home stretch; "Cupid" and "Short Stack" by Terraform are both exceptionally well-written pieces and worthwhile reads; "Revelations: Donnie & April" by Jay Jones is sure to give you a highly pleasant and elegant dose of Apriltello; and The Nerdfighter's gender-bending "Sugar, Spice, and a Splash of Mutagen" will not only deliver some laughs but some hilariously awkward moments as well!


	5. Of Remnants and Harbingers

**Chapter 5: Of Remnants and Harbingers**

"These blood red eyes,

Don't see so good,

But what's worse is if they could…

Would I change my ways?

Wasted times, and broken dreams,

Violent colors so obscene,

That's all I see these days,

These days…"

-The Black Keys, "These Days"

Just after dawn, the city rouses from its slumber. The din of the morning commute—of car engines and horns; of commuters and pedestrians—fills the air like the roar of some great cataract. A pang of sadness grips me and I sigh; she squeezes my hand and looks at me knowingly.

"You have to go, don't you?"

"I probably should. If I wait much longer it'll be hard for me to get underground without being seen, but…"

"But..?"

I stretch my arms out overhead and suppress a yawn. "But I don't really want to go. It's been such an incredible night… I guess I don't want it to end."

At that, she beams. "It doesn't have to. Stay, Donnie. I'll whip up some breakfast—I make _the best_ instant oatmeal, we can catch a movie, maybe squeeze in a powernap later on... What do you say?"

My imagination gives form to her words and I find myself daydreaming. I see her sitting across from me, giggling hysterically as we talk about one thing or another over bowls of gummy oatmeal and singed toast. Then, she's snuggled up beside me, nuzzling her cheek into my plastron while Holly Golightly marvels at storefront windows, pastry in hand, in "Breakfast at Tiffany's." And later, we're lying in the warmth of the sun. She's looking into my eyes and I into hers and, in that brief exchange, we understand our heart's desires. And as we drift off, holding each other close, the world around us seems a stereopticon of color and light. But as quickly as it came, the moment passes. The realist within me pushes the dreamer out of the driver's seat and takes the wheel.

"Donnie..?"

"Hmm..?"

"What's on your mind? You have that look in your eyes…"

"Oh, sorry." I feel the blood rush to my face. Self-conscious, I drum my fingers against my thighs. "Your offer is incredibly tempting, April. I would love nothing more than to stay, but…well, the only reason I was out last night to begin with was that the boiler in the Lair broke down and I had to find some replacement parts. I was going to make the repairs right away, but Leo called me before I had the chance. They've gone all night without heat and I imagine it's getting pretty cold down there..."

She raises my hand in hers and tenderly kisses it. "Always so unselfish…"

"To a fault."

She rises and leads me to the roof access door where she slips off my jacket and hands it over to me; I pull it on and tie it closed. The wind brushes past us. It nips at her skin and plays with her hair but in spite of it, she smiles.

"Raincheck?"

I nod in agreement. "Raincheck."

I wrap her in my arms, nuzzle her cheek, and breathe her in. She's soft and warm and smells of lavender and vanilla. We kiss and linger—anchoring each other to the moment—and reluctantly go our separate ways. But, unlike last time, there is no anger, no fear, and no tears. There is only a promise forged beneath a sunrise and consummated with a kiss.

* * *

><p>Light of day aside, I make it back underground without being seen. I collect my duffel bag at the base of the ladder, pull it over my shoulder, and head for home. As usual, the tunnels are quiet; only the hushed jangle of the tools accompanying every footfall cuts through the emptiness. Though the air is dank and cold, I'm blissfully warm. The euphoria following reconciliation, the traces of her scent on the collar of my jacket, the feeling of her lips against mine, even the tangy sweetness of the raspberry wine has my head swimming with nostalgia and hope.<p>

Second chances are rare. More often than not, choices—no matter how poor—are driven toward their conclusions, either out of ignorance, pride, or some misguided sense of integrity. And the result, invariably, is regret. Trapped in a cycle of self-loathing, the regretful abandon the present and future to cast stones at the past and curse life for being the cruelest teacher—one that imparts wisdom only after the test has been given. But April broke the cycle. She confronted her demons and helped me vanquish my own. She spoke her piece and I mine until the chasm that drove us apart was bridged by forgiveness and understanding. In the process, an old fire rekindled. It was like rediscovering a part of myself; something I cherished above all, something I thought was lost forever. And while atonement can't efface the painful memories or wasted years, it has laid a foundation for the future.

My thoughts carry me home and I arrive with little recollection of the journey. So as not to wake anyone, I open the garage door incrementally; it creaks like an old man's joints and as I pass beneath it, I remind myself to grease the rollers. I take off my jacket, hang it up, and grab the tools I need to make the repair: the acetylene torch, the ratcheting pipe-cutter, a piece of sandpaper, and some solder. Sliding the door open as quietly as I can, I step from my lab.

The television in the Lair is on. Though the volume is low, I can hear strings and woodwinds playing a melancholy overture with a familiar melody, the provenance of which eludes me. Maddeningly, the more thought I put into its identification, the farther away the answer seems to slip. With a sigh, I tip-toe down the stairs, pass into the adjacent hallway, and make a beeline for the boiler. In what has become a ritual, I visualize the repair from start to finish: plotting every step, double-checking my inventory of tools and parts, and accounting for potential setbacks. Only when I reach the end of the hallway do I hear it—the rumbling hiss of the boiler. Panic knots my guts. Did I leave the gas on? No. I remember shutting the unit down before my run-in with Raph. Besides, even down here, the smell would be noticeable. Did a pipe freeze and burst? Unlikely. The Lair isn't cold enough. I didn't notice before, but it's pleasantly warm. Alarmed, I race to the boiler, drop to a knee, and look it over. What I see takes me by surprise: it isn't as I left it. There is no ruptured tank or bent pipe. It's up and running, whirring contentedly. Under further scrutiny, I notice that the expansion tank, pressure-reducing valve, and associated piping are not salvaged pieces, but brand new—sterling and pristine. All that stands out are the joints: the soldering is solid but crude; the work of a novice. Confusion puts me in a fog. I get to my feet and head back to my lab.

Then, out of nowhere, it hits me: the music playing on the television was the score to "The Shawshank Redemption." Brimming with pride and self-satisfaction, I pump my fist in triumph. The exhilaration of connecting the dots, however, fades as another connection is made and the words—forgotten until now—resound:

"_I know Valentine's Day isn't exactly your thing, but I snagged copies of 'The Last of the Mohicans' and 'The Shawshank Redemption.' We can have a movie marathon, chow on some good eats… It'll be fun. Whaddya say?"_

I groan and pinch the bridge of my snout. Between my excursion to the salvage yard, the search for Raph, and my encounter with April, I forgot about the plans I made with Mikey. My heart sinks. Actions wound relationships but thoughtlessness destroys them. Mistakes and poor decisions can be forgiven, but thoughtlessness is much more difficult to rationalize and explain. After all, how do you tell someone they slipped your mind without making them feel inconsequential?

I curse myself, round the corner, and make my way to the living area. As I draw closer, I can make out his form. He's sprawled out on the couch, backlit by the images flickering across the television screen. I try to think of something conciliatory to say, but guilt steals the words off of my tongue. Instead, I take a deep breath, swallow hard, and let the words flow freely.

"M-mikey… Look, I'm… I'm really sorry. I got held up by something… unforeseen. I know it's a poor excuse… I should have called… But I guess I was just thrown by the whole thing."

He doesn't answer.

"Mikey..?"

Puzzled, I sidle along the arm of the couch. From this angle, with the light of the television at my back, I can see that he's asleep. A tattered blanket covers one leg; the other is stretched out across the cushions. Similarly, one arm hangs over the side of the couch while the other clutches a half-eaten bowl of popcorn. I can't help but smile. He looks so peaceful, like nothing can wound or touch him; like all is as it should be. I won't deprive him of that. My apology can wait. Waking him would be an even greater sin than the original offense. I gently slip the bowl from his grasp, set it on the floor, and pull the blanket back over his legs. He stirs, nestles his head into the crook of the couch, and settles.

"He was determined to wait fer ya, but I told 'im I didn't know how long you'd be." Raph stands at the landing of the stairs. Even from half the room away, he looks terrible—his left eye is blackened and his bottom lip is split and puffy. "I gotta say, though, I'm impressed… I didn't expect the ol' 'walk of shame' so soon…"

Part of me wants to laugh, if only to underscore the absurdity of his claim; instead, I smile weakly and shake my head. Perhaps if I knew what is on his mind or what his intentions are, I would let my guard down, but after all the years of unpredictable behavior and irrational outbursts, it is a luxury I can ill afford.

"Trust me, it's not what you think. You overestimate my abilities…"

He grins, winces, and lightly massages his lip with his fingers. Chuckling dryly, he levels his gaze on me. "I don't think so, Slugger."

"Look, Raph… about earlier, I…"

With a wave of his hand, he cuts me off. "Don't… There's a lotta stuff I wanna talk with ya about and I don't wantcha t' get ahead of yerself… 'Sides, I'm sure you've got questions of yer own…"

"You want to…talk..? To me..?"

I can't recall the last time I had a conversation with Raph that lasted more than a sentence or two. Most of our exchanges have been monosyllabic, revolving around either injuries or—his topic of choice—my flaws and inadequacies. But this is different. He's reaching out to me. I don't know why, nor do I care; in this case, the action is more important than the motivation behind it.

"Well, yeah." He says matter-of-factly. "Don't act so surprised…"

"Sorry…" I clear my throat. "But let's go to my Lab. I don't want to wake Mikey."

"Awright… It'd prolly take a bullhorn t' do that, but whatever."

He follows me into my lab and closes the door behind him. I take a seat at my drafting table and turn my chair to face him; he, on the other hand, does not move or speak. Standing just inside the doorway, his eyes roving the room, he remains.

"Raph, you don't have to stand. There's a chair by the desk. Make yourself comfortable…"

"Nah. 's OK."

He folds his arms across his chest and drops his eyes to the floor. He seems conflicted, uneasy; like he's fighting a silent war I know nothing of. Experience has taught me that if I push too hard or prod too much, he will turn inward, and if that happens, nothing will change. So I give him time. Minutes pass and I simply wait, knowing that—like always—he will open up when he's ready, on his terms. It takes a little longer, but he finally speaks:

"I, uh… I'm not… I'm not very good at this kinda stuff… But, I… guess you already know that, doncha?"

"It's okay." I will my voice to be soft and mellow. "That you're here is enough."

He steps toward me and meets my gaze. I didn't notice from across the room, but his eyes are clear and lucid, housing the fire in his soul. For the first time in the longest while, my brother is standing before me. My brother. Not some second-rate incarnation smelling of booze and vomit. Exhilaration, warm and electric, suffuses me and though I try to play it cool, I can't help but smile.

"Yer wrong, Donnie." He says. "Whydaya think you deserve less than everybody else, huh? Whydaya do that? Ya sell yerself short all the time…"

"Force of habit, I guess."

"Yeah, well cut that shit out. Ya got nothin' to be ashamed of. Ya got no reason to think less of yerself. Not like me… I've got nothin' but reasons." His hands ball into fists and he hangs his head. "All I do is fuck everything up."

"That's not true. You've made mistakes, sure, but so does everyone else. I mean, look at how I handled things with April. I should have been more understanding of her position. I should have known that being with me would've been a huge adjustment for her. But instead I took it to heart. I let it make me bitter and it didn't have to be like that."

"Bullshit!" He roars; his neck muscles jump, seemingly startled. "That's absolute crap. You didn't do nothin' wrong. What were you supposed t' do? Crawl t' her and beg?"

His words are stones skipped across the surface of my mind and they disrupt clarity like they would the waters of a calm lake. Following April's Valentine's Day snub, Raph was the least supportive of me as I coped. While Leo and Mikey wanted me to do whatever would make me happy, Raph remained decidedly non-committal. At first, I thought he was too embroiled with his own demons to care, but after the night he tried to stop me from seeing her, I felt it had more to do with his loyalty to Casey than anything else. Now, though, a different image is forming and it's as intriguing as it is puzzling.

"So you're saying I was right to be bitter? To cut her out of my life and avoid speaking to her?"

"Yer Goddamned right. What she did t' ya was terrible. SHE wasn't the one taking the risk, YOU were. SHE was in a position t' let ya down easy if she wanted, but she CHOSE t' hurt ya. SHE was the one that owed YOU the apology. It's that simple."

"Why does it matter who owed whom? Talking it over with her could have helped, but I was afraid to do that—afraid it might confirm an ugly and unwelcome truth. Maybe if I was more open with her, she would have understood my position and I would have understood hers. Maybe we could have made amends sooner. Maybe we could have fixed things."

"Ya know, yer right about almost everything… But not this." He takes a deep breath and blows it out in a long, steady stream. "Yer so orderly and consistent you expect everyone else t' be, too. But that ain't how it works. People believe what they want to. At the time, April couldn't deal with the thought of bein' looked down on or treated different. She hadta work that out on her own. Nothin' you coulda said woulda changed that. Actually, it prolly woulda drove her further away…"

"But I…"

"Look, sometimes it takes people a while to understand." He wheels the chair from beside the desk and positions himself in front of me. "How many times have all of ya tried t' help me the past few years? Too many t' count. But I didn't wanna listen. I didn't wanna hear that what I was doin' was wrong cuz—for a while—it helped, ya know? But just like April, I hadta figure it out on my own. Talkin' to me was never gonna be enough."

Never before has he admitted any wrongdoing. Until now, he's zealously defended his actions, repelling any offers of help with bravado and arrogance. For him to take ownership of all he's done is a revelation. I lean forward in my chair and close the distance between us.

"We'll always be here for you, you know that right? No matter what happens…"

"I…" He swallows hard and runs a hand across his forehead. "I… know I don't deserve all of ya. I've putcha through so much shit and fer no good reason at all…"

"Now who's selling himself short? We're a family, Raph. We're not going to give up on you when things go wrong. That's when we need each other most."

He looks away. Whenever sentimentality bleeds into a moment, he becomes uncomfortable. He always has. He rarely bears his heart and soul, preferring to keep them under lock and key. He nods his understanding and I back off, not wanting to press too much. When he's ready, he wrings his hands and continues:

"When it all started, it wasn't a big thing. Casey and me were just havin' fun and passin' the time. But then it became somethin' more. I'd have a drink or two t' unwind… and then two became three and three ended up bein' six. And you tell yerself that you can stop whenever ya want to, but ya can't because it becomes a reaction t' a lotta things… Stress, happiness, nerves, boredom…" His eyes latch onto mine. "Anger…"

"Anger?"

"Yeah."

"But why? What… what drove you to… to… um…uh…"

"Drink?" He says, finishing my thought.

"Yeah…"

"Man, it's gonna sound stupid…" He stares ahead, the gears in his mind spinning away. "It even sounds stupid in my head."

"If it's important to you, I want to know. And besides," I clap him on the shoulder good-naturedly. "You already have a lifetime of dirt on me."

"True." He admits with a shrug. Sobriety hardens his features. "I guess… well, I've always had a hard time… y'know…acceptin' things the way they are. That we're forced t' hide all the time, that the most natural things are either tougher than they need t' be or totally out of the question fer us. It just ain't fair. It took me a long time t' come to a place of peace with that… But then we met April an' Casey an' it changed things. Sure, two people ain't a lot, but they weren't terrified of us and they didn't see us as freaks… Well, it made the impossible seem possible… That maybe everything we thought we knew was wrong; that maybe humans could accept us. And that thought—no matter how insane and unrealistic it was—made me more hopeful than I'd ever been. And when you and April started gettin' close? Well, I know I gave ya a ton of shit o'er it, but—and if you tell the guys, I'll deny the fuck outta this—I was rootin' for ya. I mean, here was somethin' we never thought could happen happenin' right in front of us… And I got t' thinkin' maybe someday I'd have somethin' like that fer myself, someone who would see past… someone who would look at me the way you two looked at each other. But then she hadta go and fuckin' ruin everything. She did the one fuckin' thing that I worried she'd do—she acted like every other human we come across. She couldn't deal when things got too real fer her and she freaked…"

Suddenly uncomfortable, he gets up and begins to pace, occasionally muttering to himself under his breath. His chest rapidly swells and deflates and I can tell he's getting worked up.

"Raph…" My voice wavers. I lift myself from my chair and walk alongside him. "It's okay. I can't say I know _exactly _how you feel, but I know what it's like when you feel like things will never get better; when it hurts so much you can hardly stand it. I've been there and it's a lonely place… And you'll do almost anything to escape it because when you're there… it's agonizing."

He stops in his tracks. "How'd ya do it, Donnie?"

"Do what?"

"Dig yerself outta that hole. Everyone could tell ya weren't yerself, butcha never let it bring ya down. H-how'd ya do that?"

I cross my arms, not out of condescension or indignation, but because otherwise I feel uneasy—exposed. "Everyone has moments of weakness and I'm certainly no exception. I just tried to hide mine. Part of it was out of shame. I didn't want any of you to look at me with pity in your eyes. But the rest? I just threw myself into projects so I wouldn't dwell on it. I knew that if I did, it would ruin me." With a sigh, I add: "And even then, there were times..."

The casual observer would likely discount Raph's intelligence, failing to look beyond his hulking form or virulent temper. That would be a mistake. While he may not be well-versed in organic chemistry or applied physics, he's uncannily instinctual and has a long memory. I don't know if it's what I said or the way I'm carrying myself, but he pinpoints the moment precisely.

"Like that night in the tunnel? When you were goin' t' see April?"

"W-well, y-yeah, that would, um, c-constitute…"

"It ain't exactly one o' my proudest moments, either." A strand of spit spills over his swollen bottom lip; he wipes it away with the back of his hand. "I shoulda just left ya alone. It wasn't somethin' I shoulda done, jumpin' on ya like that... I just wanted t' help. I didn't wanna see ya hurt o'er her anymore 'n I really didn't want her t' think treatin' you like shit was somethin' she could get away with… Y'know, like just cuz you ain't human she could treat ya however she wanted and you should count yerself lucky or somethin'. Cuz that's a load of shit. It's the other way around. Always has been."

The other way around? What is he trying to say?

"You don't have to explain. I am just as much at fault. I said some horrible things to you, the most hurtful things I could think of, and it wasn't just because I didn't want you telling me how to live my life or who to associate with…" I take a deep breath and clear my throat, brushing aside my reservations. "It was because I thought… I t-thought you were siding with…with Casey…"

He says nothing in reply. He nods in neither agreement nor disagreement, his expression a blank slate from which nothing can be gleaned. Turning away, he leans against the edge of my desk, unable to face me. Perhaps if I didn't know him, I'd be fooled. Perhaps I'd think everything is fine and that he simply needs a moment to himself. But I know better. And I'm reeling, desperately trying to regain my footing.

"Raph, I…"

"H-hold up, Egghead." He brings his hand to his face. I can't be certain, but I think he's drying his eyes. "Is that really whatcha thought? That I'd just put Casey over you like that? That I'd just toss ya aside like you don't matter..?"

I feel about an inch tall—totally and utterly ashamed. "At the time, yes… You couldn't stand to be anywhere near me. Heck, you could hardly look at me without getting angry..."

Slowly, he turns and faces me, his normally brusque voice a ghost of itself. "Casey's a good dude. Better than alotta people give 'im credit for… He's fun t' hang with and we've had some good times, but he ain't you… Sure, I don't always understand ya and I have no idea what's goin' on in yer head half th' time, but yer always goin' outta yer way to make things better…" He hems and haws, either unsure of what to say or how to say it, but quickly dismisses his apprehensions with a wave of his hand. "Even when ya had no reason to; even when it wasn't easy. That's what makes ya who ya are… That's what sets ya apart. Ya don't find that everywhere. It's a rare thing an' it gets o'erlooked more than it should… Taken for granted, even. I know I've done it. April, too. So when she tracked me down 'n told me how she felt 'n what she wanted t' do, I knew I hadta try t' help."

Curiosity seizes me. It whispers from the peripheries of my mind, practically pleading for details; yearning for me to delve more deeply into an exchange that hums of mystery. Though I've been careful and have tried not to pry, I can't help myself this time.

"H-how did she bring it up? How did she go about asking..?"

He smiles and turns away. He knows he has leverage over me, and I can tell that he intends to milk it for all it's worth. Meandering between my desk and drafting table, he eyes the sundries thereon, fiddling with this or that. "That information's gunna cost ya."

I throw my hands into the air. "Oh, c'mon!"

He plops down in front of my drafting table and chuckles. "E'rything has its price, Donnie…"

"Dare I ask?"

"How's about I tell ya 'n then name it?"

My heart drops into my gut. It'd be like handing him a blank check. "I… um…erm…"

"D'ya wanna know or doncha?"

He knows he's got me. Reluctantly, I ignore my better judgment and extend my hand to him. "Deal."

"Deal." We shake on it. As soon as my hand leaves his grasp, he begins: "She started callin' Leo 'n Mikey a buncha times, prolly startin' back in October er so. They had a long talk 'bout it one night—mainly 'bout what t' do, whether or not t' tell ya 'n all that. I just happened to o'erhear it 'cuz I needed t' take a piss. They wanted t' leave it t' her; they wanted her t' be the one t' make the first move 'n get in touch with ya. An' fer a while, that was it. Ev'ry so often she'd call 'em, they'd give 'er the same answer, and that was that. I think they thought she'd leave it at that, that she'd accept it 'n move on. But she didn't. She started callin' me. I was her last resort—I don't think she wanted t' involve me 'cuz of Casey—but she was desperate. I cussed her out a couple times and hung up on her a couple more. Jus' like Leo 'n Mikey, I thought that'd be it. Y'know, ignore her 'til she stopped…" His eyes grow wide and his voice rises in pitch and volume. "An' damned if she didn't just show up one night, totally outta the blue. I gotta spot—a drainpipe down by the docks—where I go from time t' time… 'n somehow, she found me down there, tyin' a few on. She started tellin' me 'bout how much she missed ya; that she never felt about anyone else the way she felt about you 'n all that lovey-dovey crap. I couldn't tell if she was bein' honest or not, so I kinda called her out on it... An' then she told me and I knew she meant business…"

"What? What did she say? How did you know?"

A smile spreads across his face. "She told me she was gonna quit Stanford. She told me she was gonna move back here and do whatever she needed t' do to make it up t' ya. An' she told me that she loves ya. I damn near spit my beer out at that, but the way she said it, the look in her eyes, everything… She wasn't blowin' smoke. She meant ev'ry word."

Though we talked all night, April never mentioned quitting Stanford or moving back to New York. In fairness, though, I never asked; I assumed she was simply visiting. It takes me a moment to process the notion and yet another to remind myself to breathe.

"She… she said that..? All of that..?"

"Yeah. An' she wanted t' do something t' show ya how strongly she felt but didn't figure you'd wanna talk. So we put our heads together; she planned all the romantic junk and I tried t' think of a way t' getcha out of yer Lab. I figured, it bein' the middle o' winter 'n all, something happenin' to the boiler'd do the trick. Still, I think it's safe t' say I got screwed on that deal…"

"So… you and April… the whole time..? But… but… How…? I don't…"

"Like I said, there was a lotta plannin'." His hands tremble involuntarily; he balls them into fists and thrusts them under his arms. "I spent some time figurin' out how t' break the boiler without breakin' it too much… Then it was just a matter of orderin' the parts off the 'net, which April was more than happy t' do..."

"You mean… you… you…" A jumble of thoughts and feelings creates a bottleneck, and I find myself unable to speak. When the haze of befuddlement clears, my faculties return. "Y-you made the repairs..?"

"Well, yeah. Yer not the only one who can fix things, Donnie…" He leans back in his chair and clears his throat. "Which brings me t' my fee…"

Dread snakes through me. Lightly chewing my lower lip, I brace myself for the worst. "Oh, uh, ok-okay… W-what do you have in mind..?"

"Well, I've known fer a while that I need t' change…that I can't keep fuckin' up. Helpin' April was a turnin' point; it gave me a reason t' stay clearheaded, t' cut back on the booze. An' I found that on days when I was plannin' somethin' or figurin' out the logistics of somethin', not only was I drinkin' less, but I didn't _wanna_ drink. I had somethin' t' focus my energy on, even fer a little while… But when ev'rything was set, I couldn't help myself. I fell right back into my ol' pattern. An' then I got into that accident…" He hangs his head, tightening his grip around himself all the while. "An' y'know what? When I saw myself headin' for that pole, all I could think was: 'Are ya kiddin' me?' I mean, all o' us, we've been through so much—we've been up against the Foot, the Purple Dragons, the Kraang—and there I was 'bout to be taken out by a damned utility pole 'cuz I was too fuckin' drunk and stupid. An' when I came to, lyin' on the ground and hurtin' like hell, I realized somethin'… That I didn't wanna die. Not like that…"

His candor floors me and I don't know what to say. Everything that comes to mind either sounds inadequate or contrived. Kneading my thighs with my hands, I drop my gaze; the space between he and I grows with each passing moment. He swivels in the chair, snatches my half-finished technical drawing of the stealth cycle off of the drafting table, and holds it up.

"This is what I want. I wanna help ya build 'er. I know I ain't exactly experienced. I gotta lot to learn and I know it ain't gonna be easy, but I was thinkin' that maybe…if it ain't too big o' deal…"

"Of course."

He eyes me skeptically. "Just like that?"

"Just like that. You're going to need something to occupy yourself, Raph, something to take your mind off of things—especially when you feel like having a drink. I don't have to tell you that the road ahead is going to be a difficult one. You already know that. So, if there's _something_ I can do to make it a little easier for you, I'll do it… And besides," I say, grinning. "You did a pretty nice job on the boiler… the joints were a little sloppy, though."

He laughs heartily and it crescendos, filling the room. "Nothin' gets past ya, does it Donnie?" He gets to his feet, teetering from one side to the other on unsteady legs. "I prolly coulda done better, but I couldn't keep my damn hands from shakin'. It's been pretty bad…"

He's going through withdrawal. No wonder he's been keeping his hands tucked under his arms. Even now, after sharing so much—after letting me see what lies beneath the surface—he's trying to mask his vulnerability. Some things, I suppose, never change. He starts for the door.

"Well, uh… good talk, bro. I, uh, gotta go 'n meet Sensei in the dojo. I… had a long talk with him last night 'n he thinks meditation will help me beat this thing…"

"Raph..?"

He turns and faces me.

"It occurs to me that I never apologized for what I did and never thanked you for what you've done."

He shrugs. "I had the first thing comin' and the second was long o'erdue." With a half-grin, he turns on his heels, exits the lab, and slides the door closed behind him.

I remain in the middle of my lab with a strange expression undoubtedly plastered on my face. After all that's happened, it's hard to describe how I feel. There's a level of acceptance that accompanies hopelessness—a feeling that circumstances will never change and that it's best to accept life, warts and all. I suppose in that regard it's like drowning: you thrash and struggle and fight until you realize that you can't win. But unlike drowning, there's no terror, no urgency; you don't realize it's consumed you until it's too late—until your spirit is broken and your fire has been extinguished. It's a feeling I knew all too well… until Raph reached out and saved me.

It pains me to admit it, but I didn't know he was fighting the same battle as I. The signs were there, sure, but I assumed they stemmed from something else entirely. Or maybe I was too blinded by my pain to notice or too wounded to care. But circumstances have changed. For the first time in the longest while, my eyes are open. My wounds have healed and the resulting scars are remnants of the past, not harbingers of the future.

I sit at my drafting table, look over my design, and pick up a pencil. Salvation takes many forms. Some find it through faith, others through causes. I found it through my brother; through his heart and spirit, out of love and hope. And it's my hope that he'll find it through me, bolstered by the bonds of brotherhood, smelling of oil and fuel and sweat, and sustained by the understanding that no matter how things may seem—no matter how hopeless or cruel—he is never alone.

* * *

><p><strong><span>Author's Note:<span>** Thank you all so much for reading and for your continued support. It is my sincere hope that you have enjoyed this story in its entirety. I would be remiss if I did not thank my esteemed colleague **Terraform** for her assistance and encouragement throughout the writing process. She has talked me off more than a few ledges since I started this "Valentine's Day Story" (it really grew beyond that, didn't it?) back in January. I would also like to thank all of my fantastic and devoted readers for their wonderful comments, compliments, and boundless patience. You guys ROCK! Finally, a special thank you goes out to the writers who have inspired or entertained me, particularly: **SleepingSeeker, JayJones, Enimul, The Nerdfighter, Alex Hamato, dgLari**, and **BubblyShell22**.

And if I happened to forget you (my apologies), insert your name here:_.

Thanks again for reading! I greatly appreciate it.

-N.o.S.


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